


Character & Caricature

by ansketil



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Napoleonic Era RPF, Original Work, regency - Fandom
Genre: 1816, Belly Kink, Depression, Existential Angst, F/M, Fat Shaming, George iv - Freeform, Hand-feeding, Other, Prinny - Freeform, Regency, Slow Burn Romance, Stuffing, Tentacles (sort of), The Year Without A Summer, Weight Gain, angry commoners, fat appreciation, historical pastiche, let them eat cake, lots of french cooking, mentions of political suicide, the corn laws, they also like cake, too much laudanum, with some eldritch things thrown in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2018-10-01 12:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ansketil/pseuds/ansketil
Summary: An aging, portly prince and a pretty baker’s cousin make a bet on which of them can make the other one fall in love first. Outwardly, everything appears to be in the bored prince’s favour but, unbeknownst to him, their meeting was no chance encounter and romance is the last thing on the young lady’s mind. When both of them begin to lose themselves in their wager, things take a darker turn...





	1. Breakfast à la Russe

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set loosely in 1816 – the year without a summer. Crops failed all over the world thanks to extreme weather caused by the eruption of Mt Tambora and you find Britain in the grip of widespread poverty and distress with many veterans returning to unemployment after Napoleon’s defeat the previous year. The Prince Regent is lampooned by the press and despised by the common people for his indifference and extravagance.

 

_‘Tis in Pall Mall there lives a Pig,_

_That doth this Mall adorn;_

_So fat, so plump, so monstrous big,_

_A finer ne’er was born._

_This Pig so sweet, so full of meat,_

_He’s one I wish to kill;_

_I’d fowls resign, on thee to dine,_

_Sweet Pig of fine Pall Mall._

 

~ ‘The Pig of Pall Mall’

 

~*~

 

Outside, the dawn was filthy; the colour of a pigeon’s wing or a mottled street cobble. The carriage window was streaked with rain. George put a finger against the cold glass. The condensation wet his glove. _It must be freezing out there and ‘tis only September!_ He sighed and pulled his hand back, resisting the urge to trace a line across the window, sinking back into his furs. The horses’ hooves were muffled by the mud.

“What time is it?” he snapped, giving one of the two dozing men sitting across from him a sharp nudge with his foot.

His favourite page, Kerrick, startled awake. Blinking sleepily, he glanced at his fob.  “…A — a quarter to four, Your Royal Highness.” The young man covered his mouth, trying to conceal a yawn. Beside him, George’s chief equerry continued dozing, his head swaying with the movements of the carriage.

“What a wretched hour!” George complained. His back hurt. He’d tried to sleep, but his mind was crowded with thoughts. Waking Kerrick up was selfish, but he couldn’t help himself. The _vis-à-vis_ carriage was luxurious — prettily upholstered in red velvet — but there were only so many hours a man could stand to be so confined.

“Have we anything left to eat, any of the _eau de Garuche_?” He asked it out of boredom, still full from supper.

The page shook his head regretfully, “There will be breakfast waiting, Your Royal Highness.”

George sighed, letting his head fall back against the cushions. “Ugh…” One eye open, he watched the page rummage around in the compartments. He ought to have let the man sleep. It would have been so much more diverting to handle the ribbons himself, as he sometimes enjoyed, but the ghastly weather conspired to keep him a mere passenger.

There was a shout from outside and the carriage came to an abrupt halt. George’s equerry, Colonel Bloomfield, startled awake. “Oh, are we there…?” he asked dazedly.

“Wake up, man!” George growled. “Go and see why we’ve stopped!”

The colonel paled, blinking, and shook his head. “I’ll catch my death in that cold!” He was a fair-haired, thin-lipped man (the son of someone’s cousin?). No one important, George considered, if he couldn’t remember the cousin’s name. “I can hardly leave _you_ , Your Royal Highness,” Bloomfield proclaimed, his hand eventually finding the hilt of his sword. Bloomfield’s enthusiasm almost certainly had more to do with the weather than his safety.

And, since there was no question of _George_ getting out to see what had happened, Kerrick buttoned up his greatcoat without protest – like the good lad he was. “I… found your cigars, sir — there are three left — and a little of the brandy.” He pointed to one of the side compartments and opened the door.

The icy rain licked into their cosy space as Kerrick jumped out. _The first month of autumn and already winter is sharpening her knives!_ George huffed, sinking deeper into his blanket of furs, as Bloomfield reached over and slammed the door closed. It wasn’t as if they’d had much of a summer, either. Sea-bathing had been a rarity this year. He could see the equerry’s breath forming in the air.

George retrieved a cigar, leaning forward so that Bloomfield could light it. At the scrape of the match, fragrant smoke curled heavily in the air between them; the ashes of rich, fat summer, rolled in some distant place below the equator. He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the aroma.

There was a sharp rap on the door and Kerrick climbed back in, bringing a gust of cold air in his wake; the boy was pink-faced and damp. “I-it’s a body, Your H-highness,” he said, rubbing his hands over his knees. “A — a woman fainted in the r-road.”

George opened his eyes, exhaling a ring of smoke. _Ah, that’s what happens in times such as these,_ he thought to himself sadly. The idea of a lady expiring on this godforsaken stretch of interminable road was abhorrent. “What’s being done about it?” he asked. 

Kerrick nodded, blowing into his cupped fingers. “I t-think they’re s-shifting her… it’ll be s-sorted out soon…”

“Surely we cannot leave her to die in the road?” George asked pointedly. That would a fine thing for the papers to discover! He was unpopular enough without women flinging themselves under his carriage. "Poor creature!"

“It’s not as though we have room for her,” Bloomfield reminded him.

George gazed out the window, wiping it clear with his cambric handkerchief. It was difficult to see anything at all through the rain. But the notion of a lady in distress aroused a little chivalry on his part. “Cannot someone make room?” he asked, watching his breath steam.

“Ah…” Bloomfield coughed. Equerry and page exchanged an uncertain glance.

“Your Royal Highness is truly the soul of kindness.” The shivering Kerrick smiled at him. “I will tell them that the lady may ride with us!”

By the time George had half-opened his mouth in protest, Kerrick had already quit the carriage with another rude gust of cold. “Oh, but she will smell!” he complained, wrinkling his nose. He was most particular about personal habits and this lady, however blameless, _had_ been lying in the mud.

“You are a paragon of forbearance, sir.” It was delivered so smoothly that he could not be sure if Bloomfield was genuine or resorting to sarcasm.

The door opened — letting in another frigid blast — and a small, slumped figure was passed within. Her clothing was wet and matted with filth, and George found it difficult to make out her features. This sorry, shivering creature was cramped awkwardly between Kerrick and Bloomfield, insensible of the honour that was being given to her.

The carriage began to move again. George finished his cigar, watching as the young woman continued to tremble. He idly considered giving up one of his furs for her, but he was very comfortable and loath to forgo such warmth. _Her besmirched condition is hardly her fault_ , he reminded himself. Not like his wife, who voluntarily foreswore cleanliness by neglecting her toilette at every opportunity. He shuddered, and his hatred of Caroline spurred him to gallantry. “Give her the last of the brandy… the poor creature should sit next to me under the fur,” He shuffled to make a space.

There was only a fraction more room next to George than between the other two men. Instead, the lady instinctively curled herself against his lap. After a moment of surprise, he adjusted the blanket of fur over them both. _Having a strange woman draped over one is disconcerting indeed_ , he reflected, and then smiled at the thought. _Well, not so unusual in my younger years._ Kerrick looked apologetic while Bloomfield was carefully expressionless. _How she shivers,_ George noted, running a hand over her narrow, trembling shoulder.

Hours slid by. Kerrick went back to sleep and even George managed to doze off for a short while, confident that Colonel Bloomfield would remain watchful. He had heard of ladies warming their feet with puppies, but this was certainly taking the principle somewhere far more pleasant. He amused himself by imagining various theatrical misfortunes which might have resulted in her collapse. She was not really to his taste, but he was quickly developing a fondness for her part in enlivening a dull journey.

The faint sunrise revealed a mangled landscape. Storm-felled trees, stripped of leaves and branches by the force of the gale, lay tangled by the roadside. He glanced away from the window as the lady made a small noise, muffled between the fur and George’s waistcoat.

“No need to fret,” he said softly, giving her a reassuring pat. She seemed to take this advice to heart, burrowing further under the blanket of furs, pressing her body firmly against George’s own. “Oh!” he chuckled — winking at the colonel — and shook the lady gently.

“Nnnn…” she kneaded at his flesh like a cat, clearly put out at being thus disturbed.

He laughed again, a little ticklish, “La, I am irresistible!”

“Ss… warm.”

George, thoroughly amused, lifted the corner of the furs. The damp fabric of her dress had grown musty under the blanket and his dark velvet coat was now smeared with dry mud, yet he could not help but be drawn to the wide, dark eyes. “Awake, eh?”

There was a reluctant “…Mm,” from his lap.

“Young woman,” George began, stifling another laugh, but trying to be at least half-serious for her sake (and unconsciously mimicking his father’s speech, which he would forever associate with stern moralising) “you must be less forward with strange gentlemen, eh wot? Lest they–”

But she had fallen asleep again.

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn was woken by the sound of voices. _I must still be dreaming._ She was lying across soft, scented pillows that radiated heat. _I failed,_ she thought, but it was a distant thought. _The regent’s carriage was supposed to pass by…_ perhaps she had succeeded and this was heaven?

Her luxurious nest shifted — oh, but the cushions must be silk! — and Gwendolyn opened her eyes into a velvety darkness.

“What are you going to do with her, sir?” someone asked.

“I am not quite sure…” answered a deep voice, resonating against Gwendolyn, her sanctuary gently rising and abating with each breath. She fought not to tense as she realised that she was enveloped in a person — _a man_.

“It seems…” the man continued, almost experimentally, as though testing out the words, “rather unkind to abandon her… especially in London.” There was a gurgling rumble from beneath Gwendolyn. “The poor thing ought to see a doctor — and she must be hungry after such an ordeal.”

“Undoubtedly,” a third voice agreed dryly.

 _London?_ Gwendolyn panicked. She couldn’t remember what happened to the explosive — _did I drop it in the road? The rain must have dampened the powder…_

But all such considerations came to a jarring halt when her blanket was pulled away and she stared up into a face which somehow contrived to be both strange and familiar. It took her a few moments to recognise what she was looking at, so used was she to seeing his features only in profile or caricature. He was a middle-aged gentleman with a broad, fleshy face and short, glossy brown hair that was almost certainly a wig. A high, fashionable cravat almost succeeded in cosseting his jowls. His grey-blue eyes, certainly his best feature, twinkled merrily at her.   _Oh Lord, it’s the Prince Regent._

He gave her an encouraging smile, just as someone grabbed Gwendolyn by the shoulders, lifting her out of his lap and out of the carriage. Sunlight stung her eyes. A dozen men in blue and buff livery were lined up beneath an immense _porte cochère_. One moved forward to assist the prince out of the carriage. Someone tapped Gwendolyn on the shoulder. A soldier decked out in gold braid; one of the prince’s guards? “It’s all right miss,” he said quietly, “you aren’t in trouble.”

Shock was the only thing that tempered Gwendolyn’s impulse to flee.

“Bloomfield!” the prince called sharply. “Bring the lady inside and summon my physicians — it’s _damned_ chilly out here!”

Mutely, Gwendolyn followed the prince and his escort inside.

 

~*~

 

“So…” George sipped at his Moselle, staring thoughtfully at the strange guest seated across from him. “Tell me, dear lady, what is your name and how did you end up unconscious in the road…?” He finished the glass, letting the taste linger in his mouth. A bath and some clean clothes looked to have done the woman a world of good. She was, perhaps, a little over five and twenty? It was hard to tell.  _Far too narrow in the hips_ , he thought critically, _but her bosom is fine — if not as generous as one might like_. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, she was a Grecian nymph of a thing. _A young, fleet-footed Artemis… and hardly the thing for a man of fifty-two, eh wot?_

“Oh,” she blushed charmingly. “My name is Gwendolyn H-hunt, I…” she gazed at him in consternation. “I do not quite know what occurred… I do not… remember, Your Ma – I mean, Highness.”

“I am sure it will come to you,” George sniffed, tired, setting aside the remains of his pigeon pie to pick at a dish of glazed pastries and signalling a footman to move on from Moselle to Champagne. She was tolerably well-spoken at least, his rescued maiden — that augured well. “You may remain at Carlton House to recuperate,” George smiled magnanimously.

“Oh, I could not impose on Your Highness’ hospitality…!” Miss Hunt protested.

She was _very_ pretty _. Where had they found the gown?_ Dusky pink silk and, although the fit was not perfect, the colour was well-chosen to suit her complexion. _Oh, but she really is too thin._ Miss Hunt owned none of the grace a more mature lady would have lent the style. He thought of his beloved Isabella: older than he, so tranquil, her beauty so perfectly accomplished.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, shocking her into silence. This quiet was punctuated by the clinking of silver and china as fresh dishes were set down _à la russe_ and old plates cleared away: sausages, soup, Welsh rarebit, walnut cake, and warm scones with jams and cream. George hummed, deciding between the merits of strawberry preserve or fig and apricot jelly, and then delicately wiped his mouth with a napkin, finally noticing that his guest was eating nothing. “Are you not hungry?” he asked, surprised.

Miss Hunt startled again, staring at him.  _The poor dear’s nerves are shattered,_ he thought, _and is it any wonder after such a night?_

George looked pained, “Do I seem like the sort of gentleman who would invite his guests to _watch_ him eat breakfast?”

“Y — I mean, _no_ — it all looks wonderful, Your Highness…” She eyed the heavily laden table warily. “I’m just not sure what to, um…?” George gestured impatiently and a servant ladled out a goodly portion of soup and compiled a large plate for his guest.

He leaned back in his seat, watching her eat. _What terrible table manners. Someone must fix that._ Bloomfield entered the room, glancing briefly at Miss Hunt, before bowing deeply. “What?” George asked with another stifled yawn. _Time to move on to port, I think._

“I am terribly sorry to interrupt Your Royal Highness’ breakfast,” the equerry whispered, “but I have just been informed about a crowd of malcontents gathered outside Carlton House.”

George’s eyes widened, “Well, damme, disburse them!” He took another scone. It really was ridiculous. _This is why I prefer Brighton. They always cheer me in Brighton._ He spooned cream onto the scone.

Miss Hunt spoke up, “Aren’t you going to… find out… why they’re here?”

George tasted the cream. Was that a hint of orange flower water? “If you wish.” Her naiveté was refreshing. The apricot jelly was a perfect match for the smooth, pillowy cream and the warm redolence of the scone. He took another bite.  “What do they want, Bloomfield?”

“It is Henry Hunt, sir. He wishes you to hear his petition for reform and is accompanied by many of his followers.”

George shuddered. Last week those same dogs had hounded Castlereagh at his home in St. James’ Square and broken a deuced many of the man’s windows. “I am not at home to the likes of Mr Hunt,” George said calmly, finishing the scone and chasing it down with port. “As you can see, I am occupied with a far more beautiful hunt, at present.” He grinned, delighted by his own wit, and winked at the fair subject of his compliment.

_Miss Hunt, indeed!_

But then an awful thought struck him: “My dear, I hope you are not a relation of this self-appointed Robespierre?”

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn Tripthorne bit her lip. The prince had set down his glass and was appraising her carefully. In truth, she had picked Hunt’s name off the top of her head, for she had heard of his famous speech at Spa Fields and his vow to force the government to repeal the Corn Laws.  “I don’t believe so, Your Highness,” she replied nervously.

Her stomach was doing nothing but churn as he gazed at her. The lavish breakfast seemed like a dream — not real food at all. She had been prodded and leered at by no less than three of the prince’s doctors and then virtually thrown into a bath. Gwendolyn had only slowly become aware of her state. Her very skin seemed distant from herself and scrubbing just seemed to render it even less substantial.  

The table was very long, but dishes were only placed at one end of it, where the large prince sat in a gilded, throne-like chair decorated with sphinxes and lions. Gwendolyn sat at his right elbow, on a seat which lacked ostentation only by comparison with that of the regent. The ceiling seemed so high that it might be in danger of drifting away, were it not anchored by so many glittering gasoliers. The air was unnaturally warm.

A number of servants were lined up against one wall, while several more undertook the task of serving and clearing the many dishes, as well as the provision of the prince’s various libations. The thin-lipped officer, Bloomfield, remained at attention behind the prince’s chair — staring vaguely into the middle-distance — presumably waiting for the prince to dismiss him.

It was one thing to talk of selfish, privileged aristocrats and their follies — but to see such talk so… so _fully_ embodied by the Prince Regent (no matter how many caricatures she had seen) shocked Gwendolyn deeply. He was dressed in a quilted banyan, its silk frogging loose, revealing a matching pearl-buttoned waistcoat; blue and pink oriental poppies floating on a sea of cream. Combined with the froth of white silk at his neck, the effect reminded Gwendolyn of a stout but elegant china teapot. Over the course of the meal she had watched him move from white wine to champagne, thence to port, and now he was extolling the virtues of his favourite cherry brandy, which came — he explained — from an Illyrian monastery on coast of the Adriatic.

About some things, she could speak to him with halting truth: her brother Thomas had died and her situation, which had been dependent upon his income, was now grim. But, rather than perishing by way of an illness as she claimed, the Rev. Thomas Tripthorne had been cut down by a dragoon while attempting to rally his flock against the injustices of Lord Liverpool’s government.  Many had been forced to flee, Gwendolyn included. She gave few details as to how she had ended up lying on the road, but suggested that she had been travelling to the home of a relative by the only means available to her.

Indeed, both she and the Prince Regent were meant to have died in the blast. Finding both him and herself alive this morning and — of all things! — breakfasting together, left Gwendolyn utterly nonplussed. Having resolved herself to take that final step, she had no recourse with which to deal with her present circumstances.

Fortunately for her, the prince was as content to carry the bulk of the conversation as he was to eat the majority of the food. Numbly, Gwendolyn listened to a lengthy diatribe against the Princess of Wales. The regent seemed pleased by the prospect of a fresh set of ears to abuse with this obviously well-worn speech, as though the whole country had not heard the sordid details of how he had mistreated his wife. He explained, mournfully, that no one took his side in this matter — not even his ministers, “…who refuse to assist me in divorcing the harpy!”

Gwendolyn nodded and endeavoured to arrange her face into a semblance of sympathy. The muscles felt as though they belonged to someone else. Her thoughts were with the people outside. She could not hear their cries, but if she tilted her head at a certain angle, she could glimpse them past the heavy drapes, swarming like a multitude of insects against the mansion’s elegant, stone-columned fence.

“No one understands how I have suffered,” he sniffed, finishing his second glass of brandy, his cheeks very red. “They cheer Caroline and greet me with distain — throw rocks at my carriage. As though _I_ were not the one duped — yes _duped!_ — into a marriage with that — that…”

“…Hoyden?” Gwendolyn supplied, not really listening.

“Yes, that hoyden!” The prince smiled at her as his glass was refilled. His lips were small, but very full, and age had etched their corners languidly upwards. Gwendolyn realised that, despite his heavy drinking, he was far from foxed and still warming to his subject. If some halt were not called, he would likely continue in his complaints for another hour, completely indifferent to those gathered outside.

 

~*~

 

“I wonder, Your Highness…” Miss Hunt said tentatively, “If you, ah…” the lovely girl was still adjusting to the honour of his attention. “They are all probably very hungry outside. You might… feed them? Since my noble rescuer is so very generous?” She had pluck, this girl, no question.  

“ _Feed_ them?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow at her in disbelief. “And receive their infernal petition too, I suppose!”

There was an expectant cough from Bloomfield, “I could call in the regiment, sir?”

Miss Hunt paled, “I only meant that they are distressed, like Your Highness, and in want of sympathy.”

George sighed, pushing away his plate. “This talk of crowds has put me off my breakfast.” He did not like to discuss such unpleasant things with such a fair creature. “Yet… while I have no sympathy with such radicals, I have no wish for them to think their prince unfeeling. Arrange it, colonel.”

 “But, Your Royal Highness, what about—?”

“Later. Miss Hunt and I will retire — I am quite fatigued.” He stood and moved around the table to offer the young lady his hand. _Ah, such a fine little minx!_

 

~*~

 

It was as though an inkstand had been knocked over in her mind, spilling over all her thoughts, leaving her unable to form a response to the prince’s astonishing assumption. 

“Oh come, my dear, your late brother would want you taken care of, surely?” The Prince Regent’s tone was brisk, suggesting that Gwendolyn’s hesitation was somehow ridiculous. His plump, pale fingers glinted with diamonds. 

“If, by taken care of, you mean ravished by a man I have known for all of an hour, then I must assure you — sir — he would _not!_ ”

The prince pouted and brought his hand to her face, brushing his thumb down her cheek, “But am I not proposing that we further our acquaintance with one another?”

“I…” he was very tall, she realised, as well as broad. He seemed to fill her entire field of vision and she took in, dumbly, the straining pearl buttons of his swollen waistcoat. One of them appeared in very real danger of deserting its post. “You must understand,” she choked out, “that I never expected to be t-the, the object of such an _august_ personage’s fancy. Surely there are many women more _suited_ to–”

“Faith!” he exclaimed with a dramatic wave of his hand. The button gave way with a small _pip_ , tinkling on the parquet floor. He affected not to notice. “What use are _suitable_ women when there is your exquisite self to behold?”

Would she be given leave to refuse him? _I will die first,_ the thought surged through Gwendolyn. _I will die before I submit to this man. And, if I can, I will take him with me._

But she was brought out of her resolutions by the sound of laughter. The Prince Regent kissed her hand and drew her up, chortling as though she had just told him with wittiest joke imaginable. “La…! Miss Hunt – your expression!”

“What?” she snapped, blinking up at him, confused.

 “Ah, ah!” he took her by the arm, still chuckling. “My pretty guest, you delight me. May I call you Gwendolyn — or Gwen — Gwinnie? Hmm… perhaps _not_ Gwinnie…”

He led her through to the next room, just as fine as the last, with yellow-gold wallpaper and a great marble hearth. Being on his arm was a little awkward — he being so tall and she being so short – and she could not help but brush against his amply quilted side. The ceiling was festooned with cherubs and Olympians. The prince seated her in a large armchair by the fire and then sank gratefully into its twin.

Yet he did not seem so much like a living caricature in this room. Settling in his wide armchair and dressed in such finery, he suited his environment perfectly. He was as gilded, plush, and well-upholstered as his palatial surroundings. Even his shoes were buckled with diamonds, which winked at Gwendolyn, catching the light of the fire. “Oh, Miss Hunt, any woman who doesn’t give a fellow good chase doesn’t know what she’s about.” He waved a hand dismissively, “Come, we’ll share a bottle or two… and you can tell me more about yourself.”

 _More alcohol?_ “Your Highness, I could not possibly keep up — perhaps tea?”

“Oh _tea_ …” he said in the same way another man might say _oh dear._ “Well, I daresay we have some somewhere…”

“You are teasing me!” she exclaimed. _Was it all a mockery, then?_

“You _wound_ me, dear Gwendolyn,” he replied, placing a hand over his heart and comically affecting to blink back tears. “Now,” and, at that word, all mockery vanished, leaving only his affably dimpled smile, “tell me about your situation – you mentioned a cousin?”

The ease with which he discussed such things alarmed her and she could conjure no lie, “I — yes, she lives here in London. But Anne has no notion to expect me…”

“And what is her husband’s situation?”

“I believe he owns several bakeries, Your Highness.”

“Ah! A most agreeable trade, certainly.” He patted his broad stomach with a wry smile, delicately fingering the gap created by the missing button, and Gwendolyn fought the strange urge — in that moment — to like him. “So, when you are sufficiently recovered from your ordeal – _sufficiently, mind!_ – we shall deliver you to this baker and the care of your doting kin?”

“Doting is not the word I would use.” Anne had never replied to her letters. Her qualms about carrying out a plan to assassinate this man were eddying uncomfortably in her gut. The prince was certainly _deserving_ of such a fate but, being confronted with the object of her hatred, she could not help but recognise the spark in those blue eyes as that a of fellow soul — albeit one vastly different from her own. _He’s a tyrant,_ she reminded herself, _a spoiled tyrant._    

“Hm,” the Prince Regent frowned at her. “No money, eh?” Gwendolyn blushed and he gave her a sage nod. “The one thing I _cannot_ stomach, Gwen, is a miser. So the lovely cousin of this prosperous baker is left destitute — cruel, I call it! Families ought to support one another. Nothing worse than bailiffs at the door, you know — spoils any party.”

 _You’d know better than I!_ She thought bitterly. Her inability to pay the grocer’s bill held nothing on the hundreds of thousands of pounds he was accustomed to owe to his tailors, architects, chefs, jewellers, artists, and who knew who else? At least, until he had become his mad father’s regent and gotten his fat fingers on the royal purse.

There was silence for a moment and then, with great delicacy, he said: “One wouldn’t like to think, my dear Gwendolyn… that your lying in the road was rather more deliberate than you would care to admit?”

 _I hate you,_ she wanted to scream, and covered her face with her hands, unable to look at him. She began to cry and despised herself for it. That he – of all people – should be the one to ask; to guess at her despair, was the cruellest joke imaginable. Gwendolyn tried to quiet her sobs, but they choked in her throat as she thought of her brother’s body lying on the cobbles; they had not heard that the authorities had read the Riot Act, nor suspected that such force would be brought to bear on such a peaceful, god-fearing assembly.

Someone handed her a lace handkerchief and Gwendolyn had barely managed to garble out her thanks but to find herself hauled upwards into an embrace that smelt of musk and orange blossom. “I think,” the prince remarked gently, stroking her hair, “we ought to compromise, you and I, and satisfy ourselves with hot chocolate in lieu of tea or brandy. What say you?”

 

~*~

 

Miss Hunt nodded, still snuffling into his handkerchief. The young lady was barely a slip of a thing! He could feel her ribs through the pink silk of her dress and the sharp jut of her chin against his breast. It certainly wasn’t an attractive prospect; her misery concealed all her charms and exacerbated her flaws. _That is unfeeling,_ he reminded himself, _as though anyone could be at their best in such a state. And if she be too narrow, sir, why you are certainly too broad!_

He settled her back down and placed a dish of hot chocolate carefully into her trembling hands. The delicate saucer clinked piteously against its matching cup. His doctors had advised him that she ought to rest after her ordeal, but he had insisted that she take breakfast with him, purely to alleviate his own boredom. And he had made sport of her.

“Please forgive me,” he sighed, returning to his chair and stirring his own beverage with a spoon. Yet, at the same time, he could not resist the hint of theatricality that entered his voice. _She finds you repulsive,_ he reminded himself. It had been written all over her face when he asked her to sleep with him. George took it in his stride. It had never stopped him getting what he wanted. That was the nature of the game. If she had given in to him, why they might have passed a pleasant few hours and parted fine friends… but there was no sport to be had with a sure thing.

Miss Hunt regarded him with bleary eyes, “…Forgive…?” Dazed, she gave the impression that she had quite forgotten he was there, which irritated him. It was not as if he was in the habit of giving heartfelt apologies to bakers’ cousins.

“For my part in your distress,” he explained softly. _Perhaps she ought to be bled_ , he wondered, _that always gives me such relief._

“Oh…” she wiped her eyes again and tried the hot chocolate. “This…” she struggled to regain her composure, “this is very — I mean… Your H-highness is… most kind.” 

“Hm,” he sipped the hot chocolate distractedly; vanilla, cocoa, and cinnamon mingling on his tongue. He himself was no stranger to melancholy and a woman such as herself could not afford the vices with which he was accustomed to assuage it. For her, there was no saccharine tunnel of oblivion, only that final, absolute recourse, and who was to say he might not have done the same in her position?

He suddenly found her presence unbearable.

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn watched the distant crowd from a window seat. They remained there for most of the afternoon, but their fervour had dulled. Rain began to fall again in the afternoon and the figures slowly bled away, leaving Pall Mall to its regular thoroughfare.

She remembered standing in the town square – crying for change until her voice was raw. When her brother died she had reconciled herself to the fact that they were never going to see any reforms while the Prince Regent ruled, falling in with those who believed the only way to send a message that would not be ignored would be to kill him. _BREAD OR THE REGENT’S HEAD._ They had daubed it wherever they could. Yet only she, of their number, had possessed the numbness of spirit to volunteer and no family who would miss her. And no gruesome charge of High Treason could be worse than her brother’s limp body, his hat still drifting to the ground. _How strange it is to be on the other side of this glass…_

A young page interrupted her thoughts, “You can go home if you like,” he said kindly, “His Royal Highness didn’t command you to stay, Miss Hunt. You said you had family in London?” The prince had left Gwendolyn at the mercy of his many servants. She didn’t like how they looked at her, so knowingly. The chocolate had made the roof of her mouth feel slick and strange, while her tears had wrung her voice like a wet rag.

“…But if you wish to accept the prince’s offer,” the young page continued, “There would be us t’would appreciate it.”

“You would?” Gwendolyn raised her eyebrows, trying to regain her equilibrium, finally looking away from the window.

“Oh yes, as you have no doubt surmised, His Royal Highness is in desperate need of help.”

She looked doubtful, “He didn’t seem to be in need of… much of anything.”

“All of his bodily requirements are met,” the servant said slowly, almost daring her to make a comment about the regent’s weight, “but he very much needs friends around him who will speak their minds when the occasion calls for it. You were very brave in persuading him to deal kindly with the crowd today.”

“Brave…?” Gwendolyn echoed, disbelieving. “You wish me to manipulate him?”

“Manipulate is a _strong_ word,” the page chided her as he led her to the room that had been given to her. Everywhere, the prince’s lavish furnishings shocked her anew. It was all too much; gold and raspberry marble became common things, overripe and cloying, even as they astounded. “Everyone here desires to sway the royal favour in one direction or another. You would, at least, be attempting to direct him towards his better nature.”

“You believe he has one?”

“That’s a very unkind thing to say about the gent who possibly saved your life,” the page said coldly. “This is your room, Miss Hunt.”

It was not as large as she had feared, but still far too imposing for comfort — rather like the prince himself. Pastel green and gold were the dominant colours, and paintings of pastoral scenes and racehorses hung on walls of silk. “What happens if I decide to stay here?” she asked nervously.

“Then you would be expected to treat His Royal Highness with _every_ courtesy,” the page replied sharply. _I wonder if all his servants are so loyal?_  “No criticism whatsoever.”

Here she was, being put up at Carlton House by the infamous Pig of Pall-Mall himself. Insulting epithets took to Prinny with the ease of flour and water _: tyrant, libertine, drunk, philanderer, glutton, spendthrift, bacon-faced rogue…_ Now she had seen that all of those labels were well deserved, except — perhaps — for the first. She smiled, trying to regain the friendly tone their conversation had before she insulted his master’s character. “Is that why no one’s told him he ought to eat less–?”

“Faith, he knows _that_ – no question, miss!” the page interrupted her, suddenly laughing. “The prince isn’t stupid, Miss Hunt. Just because no one discusses it, that doesn’t make it any less of a fact. His girth embarrasses him something wicked.”

The page’s suggestion wasn’t unreasonable. Perhaps Henry Hunt’s words would be more palatable to the shallow regent coming from the lips of a woman he desired. _You were willing to sacrifice your life for reform, why not your virtue?_ She imagined what it must be like to writhe atop the overindulged prince, mounds of adipose quivering like jelly as she moved her hips.. _._ “Then why does he persist in such…” she tried to find a word to describe such a breakfast, still uncomfortably full from her own small share in it. “…such excess?”

He shrugged, “I suppose he can’t help it.” It was as if she’d asked why the sky was blue and the grass green.

“What is to become of me here?” Gwendolyn asked. Oh, but what did any of it matter? What did _she_ matter, either as his momentary whore or his failed assassin? She was a puff of smoke, a spec – without friends or family – she might as well be dust already.

Another shrug, “That’s up to you, Miss Hunt.”

 


	2. Supper à la Française

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a fair few deliberate anachronisms in this chapter. The main ones are that the song Gwendolyn sings was published several decades later, the animals were gifted to George IV much later, and the prince and Brummell had already fallen out by 1816. However, I couldn’t resist using the Beau in the story, so – for our purposes – the infamous falling out has not yet occurred, though their relationship is strained. The letters at the beginning of each line of Jane Austen's riddle can be rearranged to spell "LAMB", after Charles Lamb, the poet who wrote 'Triumph of the Whale'.

 

_Next declare –_

_Muse, who his companions are:_

_Every fish of generous kind_

_Scuds aside or slinks behind;_

_But about his presence keep,_

_All the monsters of the deep;_

_Mermaids with their tails and singing,_

_His delighted fancy stinging;_

_Crooked dolphins, they surround him;_

_Dog-like seals, they fawn around him_

_Following hard, the progress mark,_

_Of the intolerant salt sea shark;_

_For his solace and relief,_

_Flat-fish are his courtiers chief;_

_Last and lowest in his train,_

_Ink-fish (libellers of the main),_

_Their black liquor shed in spite:_

_(Such on earth the things that write.)_

~ ‘The Triumph of the Whale’

George did not see Miss Hunt again until two days later, and only then in the late evening. Mindful of his doctors’ judgements this time, he had left her to rest. Yet — having made that decision — between the ball the previous night, his visit to his ailing mother, an assignation with Isabella, state papers to read, meetings with government ministers (and all of this accompanied by a hefty amount of brandy), he almost forgot his little roadside damsel entirely.

His breakfast with Miss Hunt had been charming and distressing by turns. _I am far too old for such game as she,_ he thought ruefully. But her emotion had reminded him of the dull nature of his present liaisons — however comfortable (la, devilish comfortable bosoms!).

Now he lay in the bath, eyes closed, with his head resting against a tasselled cushion and his nose tickled by rose oil mixing with the hot water. A novel and half a glass of champagne sat on a sideboard by his shoulder. He slid his head under the water and then sat up, wiping his face with a cloth and downing the champagne.

Miss Hunt’s lack of a husband was more of a concern to him than her lack of birth. He was never one to be particular about that, provided a girl had beauty and a quick wit. _She’s a penniless nobody – the poor relation of baker can only gain by a dalliance with a prince,_ the uncharitable side of him thought as an attendant replenished his champagne. _Very well,_ his more delicate sentiments answered, _why then she has no reputation and would be judged a Cyprian solely on your taking advantage of her situation._ He brushed aside the thought. There were always ambitious men to take care of his past dalliances, especially since he had such excellent taste in women.

That brought him to Maria and he shifted uncomfortably, reaching again for his glass. _Beautiful, devoted Maria…_ There would never be one to compare with his true wife, the bride of his youth, before that German harpy descended on him… He would rush to her in a heart-beat if she gave him a sign. But Maria would not write to him; she was better than he deserved and she knew it, curse her. _But how could any man ever be worthy of Maria?_ He scratched his neck. Of course, Maria always needed to have things _her_ way – that was the problem. If only she could have been his lawful wife… then she would have had her place at his side and he could always return to her, his angel, when he tired of the chase.

 _Miss Hunt and I are both in need of comfort,_ he reasoned, lying back again. _There’s no shame in that._ He imagined her sitting beside him now, perhaps running her fingers through his hair.

George reached over and picked up Miss Austen’s latest novel, _Emma_ , which he had given the author permission to dedicate to him. Her combination of wit and romance never failed to appeal to him and this latest novel was no exception. He was in the midst of the ninth chapter and sweet Harriet and spirited Emma were solving a riddle proffered by Harriet’s supposed suiter.

 

_My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,_

_Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease._

_Another view of man, my second brings,_

_Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!_

_But ah! united, what reverse we have!_

_Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown;_

_Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,_

_And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone._

He did not read further, but paused to attempt the puzzle himself, before learning what the young women determined as the solution. George frowned, narrowing his eyes.

Feeling his pulse quicken and blood rise to his face, he skimmed down the page. Emma had determined the first to be “court” and the second “ship” resolving as “courtship” in its conclusion, while Harriet was stuck with thoughts of sharks and mermaids. He thought of the anonymous verses that had been printed in _The Enquirer_ and Cruikshank’s cruelly cetacean depictions of him that had followed:

 

_Name or title, what has he?_

_Is he Regent of the Sea?_

_From this difficulty free us,_

_Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnaeus._

_With his wondrous attributes,_

_Say what appellation suits._

_By his bulk, and by his size,_

_By his oily qualities,_

_This (or else my eyesight fails),_

_This should be THE PRINCE OF WHALES._

 

 _Prince of Whales_ , he thought glumly, looking down at his large stomach, glistening pinkly above the water. He slapped it and it wobbled in reproach. How Miss Austen would delight that he should be reading this mockery in the bath!

He had tried to suppress that awful rhyme, offered the editors a fine sum for such consideration — a hundred pounds was not unreasonable! — to no avail. The vicious slurs only increased, culminating in a truly humiliating piece on his fiftieth birthday. It had given George immense satisfaction to see the scoundrels put away for libel. Two years, by God, it was not enough! _Weren’t those curs named Hunt, too?_

Such mockeries were depressingly routine, but the means by which the worst of them reached his attention was equally distasteful: so-called friends laughing behind his back, courtiers covering their mouths to disguise their mirth, and the snatches of sing-song jeers by the common people – until he was finally forced to send someone to fetch him a copy, unable to resist his own morbid curiosity. On the whole, he preferred it when they sent their slurs to him first, in an attempt to get him to pay them not to publish the stuff.

It ought not to surprise George that so sharp an observer of human foibles as Miss Austen should not fail to note his own but, still, it galled him. His eyes watered. _I ought to have met with her myself,_ he thought miserably _, and_ _explained my regard for her work in person._ He had sent his librarian, Rev. Clarke (an amusing little toady), as his emissary, certain that she would be entertained by Clarke’s manner. Faith, he had all but offered up Clarke to her pen! Yet it was _him_ she ridiculed — always _he_ was the butt of everyone's cruelty.

But, was it not possible that there was no mockery intended on Miss Austen’s part? Perhaps he was too sensitive in his suppositions? It might be only “court” and “ship” and not “prince” and “whale” at all. He flipped back to the dedication which had given him such profound pleasure:

 

_TO_

**_HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS_ **

**_THE PRINCE REGENT,_ **

_THIS WORK IS,_

_BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS’S PERMISSION,_

_MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED_

_BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS’S_

_DUTIFUL_

_AND OBEDIENT_

_HUMBLE SERVANT,_

**_THE AUTHOR_ **

****

He felt sick. It was too much. Each H.R.H. now seemed more insincere than the last. “Damn her!” he exclaimed, tossing the book aside. Tears stung his eyes. There was nothing he could do. Suppressing a book he had personally commended would only make him a further laughingstock.

It was _meant_ as an honour. He had wished for her to succeed! He had wanted to provide her with the wider readership his patronage would grant — and to thank her for those pleasant hours he had spent at Netherfield, Northanger Abbey, Mansfield Park, and Kellynch Hall. And this, this _mockery_ was what he received in return!

George snapped his fingers. Instantly, one of his attendants came forward to help him out of the tub, while his valet stood ready with a robe. _I will not think of her any longer,_ he resolved as he sat by the fire, drying himself while they laid out his clothes. He dipped his fingers into a jar of cold cream, rubbing it into his cheeks and half observing himself as his attendants dressed him.

The mirror was a very fine one, all things considered. Its frame was gilded and arrayed with winsome cherubs. The glass was old but spotless. It came from the Continent — as so many lovely ornaments had — but without its sad departure from some French chateau, it would never have won a place here, in his temple of elegance.

Yet there was something a little (yes, but only a _little_ ) grotto-esque about it. It was not the darling cherubs who gave offence, but a gleam which, in certain lights, unsettled George’s nerves. Marvellous to be thus excited by mere glass! He had it hung in his dressing room, where it continued to shimmer so deliciously. Only out of the corner of his eye, mind; only when it thought him too distracted to notice. _Well, his mirror must be female, to be so coy!_

He did not quite approve of his desire to look splendid for Miss Hunt. It seemed unworthy but he could not help it. He was cursed with the habit of infatuation. _Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, and woman, lovely woman, reigns alone…_ Perhaps he ought to tell someone of his faerie mirror? Dear Isabella would surely be intrigued by the object… but no. He must have his secrets. And talk of queer lights in mirrors was not at all the sort of thing that encouraged good opinions of a man.

He ground his teeth and motioned them to help him with his stays. He braced himself, trying to hold in his stomach as his valet began to tighten the laces. _Oh, it wasn’t at all fair!_ What else ought they to expect from a man forced to endure five decades of indolence?

His brothers had travelled, they had fought; they were given positions and duties! Whereas he, the eldest, had been given nothing but time and, to begin with, a meagre £50,000 a year — half of what his grandfather had received as Prince of Wales! _Live modestly, eh wot?_ George smiled bitterly at the memory, grunting as the stays continued to tighten. _Plenty of exercise – vegetables, wot! You are getting fat, sir. Prone to be stout, our family, yes — but you must fight it, boy!_

 _Oh Papa, if only you had told me to indulge myself, why I might be as thin as Brummell just to spite you!_ He gazed at his reflection critically while his valet, Dupaquier, fussed with his neckerchief and another attendant adjusted his wig. No corsetry could disguise his corpulence, but it gave him back some remnants of a figure. His cheeks felt hot. George was certainly no glutton, to wolf down anything he came across. He hated that sort of display. No, he ate like a bird, picking only the most dainty, succulent treats. And he did try to restrict himself — why, just last week, the day after that splendid fete at Alvanley’s, he had asked for lobster and plain boiled salmon and rice soup. _Lots of men put on weight at my age,_ he thought, _but they don’t have to suffer bloody ballads about it!_ “Your Royal Highness is dazzling to the eye,” Dupaquier reassured him, catching the expression on George’s face.

“Yes, yes...” Flattery. Perhaps… perhaps he had lost a little weight during his illness last month? _Can you not assist me?_ George gazed pleadingly into the glass, regarding his portly form with loathing, running his hands critically down his sides, feeling the discreet lines of whalebone. He preferred his women without such constraints ( _muslin and silk draped so becomingly over their curves_ ). But he did not think that they would find _his_ unrestrained form half as appealing as he did theirs _. Oh, it was unfair!_

He turned his head to the side and something in the mirror sharpened. George felt a tiny jolt, like the prick of a needle. _It was listening._ He leaned forward and clouded his reflection with his breath, putting his lips to the glass. There was, after all, supposed to be magic in a kiss.

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn was playing the piano in yet another of Carlton House’s grandly titled rooms. She was not playing particularly well (and had never done so), but Thomas had loved to hear her play, so she played for him — defiantly — in this monstrous palace. The page’s words had conspired to keep her in the prince’s house, but the man himself had — thankfully — had let her be.

There were so many people here, everywhere servants, doctors, soldiers, gentlemen, and ladies – important people. Often, these last appeared to be waiting to see the Prince Regent, who sometimes saw them and sometimes not. One old gentleman in a periwig raged that he had been made to wait four hours to no avail.

The servants were all very respectful, but she recognised the smiles behind their eyes. A woman had come to measure her for “a number of fashionable gowns” and her glances had been so careful, her conversation so markedly muted, that Gwendolyn had been left in no doubt everyone believed that she had already slept with the prince.

The idea of it was faintly ridiculous. But then, Gwendolyn had always found everything intimate faintly ridiculous. It had always seemed false to her. There had been interested parties, but no grand passion, nothing that prompted her to give up her life helping her brother in his work. Her sense of purpose had always been exterior to herself — reform, emancipation, decent working conditions, fair wages, and employment for the poor. What did it matter if she awoke by herself in her same old bed all her life, as long as she could be part of such great changes?

That was not to say that Gwendolyn had never felt stirrings. Nothing settled on one person, just odd moments, seemingly plucked out of time: the quirk of a store-keeper’s lips, the arch of a lady’s neck, the handsome curve of a stockinged calf, the soft line of an arm, the clarity of an unintended glance. Tiny bubbles of physical attraction that burst as quickly and unexpectedly as they arrived.   

After eating a dinner of sandwiches in her refuge, she had determined to explore the house a little, after all its well-dressed visitors had departed. Gwendolyn had been pleased to discover a music room. She felt a need to make some noise, to be something more than a shadow sliding across the carpet.

 

 _“Down yonder green valley, where streamlets meander,_  
_When twilight is fading I pensively rove_  
_Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander,_  
_Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove.”_

 _  
_ Her voice, she knew, was less awkward than her fingers — but a little too hoarse to ever sing beautifully. At some point, she became aware of a presence looming behind her, but she did not look away from the keys, finding herself once more caught in a whisper of civet and orange blossom.

The long piano stool shifted with a creak as the prince sat down. A large thigh brushed against her, uncomfortably warm. Gwendolyn tried to edge away to no avail. He took over the keys, ornamenting her simple accompaniment, and nodded at her to continue singing. His jacket was of dark blue velvet and the rest of his clothes appeared to be almost painted onto his plump frame; collar, cuffs, waistcoat, breeches, and stockings all an impeccable, dazzling white. A jewelled star, its points reminiscent of the petals of a sunflower, glinted on his chest.  Her voice trembled slightly, but she refused to be cowed by him.

_“‘T was there, while the blackbird was cheerfully singing,_  
_I first met my dear one, the joy of my heart!_  
_Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing,_  
_Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part.”_

 

The prince began to sing and his bass voice was everything hers was not: loud, sweetly melodious, and somewhat out of tune. She stopped singing, unable to compete with his volume.

_“Still glows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,_  
_Still warbles the blackbird its note from the tree;_  
_Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,_  
_But what are the beauties of nature to me?”_

He nudged her when he finished the verse and began the next, lowering his voice to make room for hers, encouraging her to sing with him. She did so reluctantly, but his pitch improved as they sang together, and the end result was tolerably fine.

 

 _“With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden,_  
_All day I go mourning in search of my love;_  
_Ye echoes, oh, tell me, where is the sweet maiden?_  
_She sleeps, 'neath the green turf down by the ash grove."_  

When they finished, she was disconcerted by a small round of applause given to them by the footmen, who must have entered the room with the Prince Regent. Gwendolyn turned in her seat to look at him. The prince seemed gratified by the clapping and stood to give them a small, elegant bow, which thankfully relieved her of his proximity, until his hand found her shoulder. _He is ridiculous,_ she thought.

 

~*~

Someone had fetched her a dressmaker, he was pleased to note, and the resulting gown of pale yellow silk was most fetching. It took effort to lift his hand from her shoulder. They were a bird’s shoulders and he wished to lend them a little flesh. _Is she eating properly?_  

“Good evening, Miss Hunt,” he said softly, stepping back. “Your voice is most charming.”

She shook her head, her dark eyes reproaching him sharply. “You are flattering me, Your Highness.”

“Not in the slightest,” he insisted. “It is a sweet voice — untutored perhaps — but very fine in its sentiment.” In truth, it was not her singing which had moved him — for her voice was rather weak — but the expression with which she sang, so painfully mournful that she might have been Ophelia. “How do you like Carlton House?”

“It is too big,” she replied without hesitation.

“But I have always found it too small,” he answered, just as quickly. “There is so little room for additions! Sometimes, I feel I ought to knock it all down and begin again.”

Her eyes widened, glancing about the room, “But — what of its beauty?”

“So you _do_ admire it,” he teased.

“Of course, but–”

“You ought to see my pavilion at Brighton,” he said. “It is a far more intimate place and entirely novel.”

“I am not certain that such novel intimacy would suit me.” Miss Hunt replied coldly, her body very still, wary of his proximity. “Everyone says that you have two wives and more than as many mistresses.”

His lips tightened, “No, Miss Hunt.” George said the words firmly, trying to keep the coldness from his voice. “You and I are not yet so well acquainted that we may talk of what _everyone_ says.”

“I — I only meant,” she stuttered, her dark eyes wide.

“You _meant_ to shame me for my conduct,” his tone became waspish, despite his efforts. “Faith, madam! As though marrying one lady for love and another for duty were not the damnedest mess a man might find himself in!” He kept his composure, but barely. “Perhaps if t’were _your_ soul laid bare for all the world to mock, you might hesitate before speaking to me in such a manner.” 

Miss Hunt stared at him for a moment and then her dark eyes flashed, “And why should I not say such things?” she hissed up at him, stumbling to her feet like an injured bantam. “What am I to think, so suddenly the fancy of so notorious a libertine? But no, it is not your _affairs_ , sir, by which your people judge you! It is by your complete indifference to anyone’s plight but your own!”

This was too much, “When have I shown _you_ indifference?” he asked, shocked by her low opinion of him.

“You have been kind to me,” she owned, her voice shaking. “But I daresay a plainer girl might have been shown a great deal less concern.”

 _She has you there._ He did not immediately reply, moving away from her with a sigh. It did not do to lose his temper. He had put off a number of friends to sup alone with her tonight and he would not be deterred by such talk. She did not know him yet, and it was his task to make her understand how small-minded such gossip was. “Shall we go for a walk, Miss Hunt?”

 

~*~

 

The night air was cold, but brought welcome relief to Gwendolyn after the heat of the house. No one followed them. The gardens were not easily defined in the gloom, shapes and shadows listing to the sough of the breeze; wide avenues of grass, the curve of a marble urn, the low cry of an owl, rustling trees, and the distant, sundry noises of London. Gwendolyn had no idea what time it was. Rose, heliotrope, and jasmine lingered in the stillness and the dust of the city faded out the stars.

She sat down on a stone bench beside the Prince Regent, starting to feel the cold through her new dress and wishing she had a shawl. He chatted, lightly, about Carlton House and the various improvements he’d made. The colours around her seemed to be painted in dark, breathing oils. _I’m lost,_ she thought, _I’ve stepped a faerie land and taken some other Gwendolyn’s part._

“Hark, a mermaid!” a voice exclaimed, startling Gwendolyn. A finely-dressed gentleman emerged from a bush, brushing leaves from his simple but exquisite clothes. Two more drunken gentlemen followed him. One of them whooped when he saw Gwendolyn and then collapsed on the grass. The prince smiled, nodding to the three gentlemen.

“What a creature…” the first man purred, gazing at Gwendolyn through a quizzing glass. “I might have known t’were a _woman_ what caused you to put off tonight’s entertainment. Prinny, ye devil!”

Beside her, the prince chuckled, pulling Gwendolyn close. His side seemed to radiate warmth and she was reluctant to break away. “What club disgorged you lot?” he asked amiably. A plump finger began tracing the line of her breastbone and Gwendolyn shivered. If they were alone, she would have pulled away, but somehow the arrival of these men had frozen her to the prince.

“White’s!” the prone gentleman giggled, drunk as a lord (which he probably was).

“It was Watier’s, Norfolk.” The handsome dandy shook his head, “we left White’s at eight.”

 _The Duke of Norfolk?_ “It was White’s, damme!”

The Prince Regent grinned. “And…?” The movements of the prince’s fingers were a trail of heat across her chest, never quite moving low enough to fondle her breasts, ghosting just close enough to suggest the possibility. _What these men must think of me!_

“Norfolk didn’t want to go home,” the third man explained. He was curly-haired and plump, though nothing like as round as the prince. “So, we toasted our beloved, absent friend – who’s found better company tonight,” he gave Gwendolyn a gallant bow, “and recalled that he owns that park with giraffes and kangaroos and such-like creatures… and, sink me, if Norfolk didn’t declare that the only way he’d go home was riding a zebra!”

“Poor animal!” the prince laughed.

“Poodle and I have three-hundred on it,” The dandy explained with hiccup and a smirk. “So, you see – Your Highness – if we could just borrow one from yon menagerie...”

“He still has to _ride_ it, Brummell!” The lord — Poodle? — reminded him.

They all looked down at Norfolk, who groaned and threw up in a flowerbed. He muttered an obscenity and Gwendolyn noticed something on the grass beside him. A package wrapped in black crepe.

She slipped from the regent’s embrace and bent down to pick it up. The crepe was damp. “What is this?” she asked.

“It isn’t ours, fair lady.” Brummell smiled and Gwendolyn began to see why the prince had pulled her close at his advent. Everyone had heard of George “Beau” Brummell. There was a note pinned to it, but it was hard to make out in the darkness.

The Prince Regent was looking at the package warily, “I… don’t think—”

Brummell snatched the note, “Ah! Let’s see...” He bent his head close the paper, employing his glass. But then his face closed and he shook his head. “Alas, cannot make it out for the life of me,” he sighed. “Now, Prinny, the zebra-”

“What does it say?” the prince asked flatly, sounding more sober than Gwendolyn had ever heard him.

“Did I not—?”

_“What does it say, sir?”_

Brummell coughed, “It — it does not wish Your Highness well.”

“Open it,” the prince demanded.

It took Gwendolyn a moment to untie the string that bound the black crepe. The object was hard and sticky; dripping darkly and stinking of copper. Everyone stared at it.

“It’s a loaf of stale bread,” she said, turning it over. “But someone has...”

“Is that _blood_?” Poodle asked.

Gwendolyn sniffed it, “I’d say so, sir. Pig’s blood, likely.”

“Impudent dogs!” Norfolk cried, trying to get to his feet and failing.

“Bread or blood?” Gwendolyn supplied smoothly, holding out her gruesome prop, amused by how shocked they all looked. But it was not funny, of course it wasn’t, it was a cry of desperation, an accusation of murder.

“Bless me, what is one to do in a climate such as this?” the prince sighed, passing an anxious hand over his stomach. “How am I to soothe such hatred? It is parliament they should blame, not I!”

Gwendolyn bit her lip. _Here is the moment,_ she realised, sending out a prayer of thanks to whoever had lobbed this into the garden. “Of course,” she nodded, “but they cannot help but apportion blame when they are in such want and Your Highness is...”

“So _very_ elegant!” Brummell finished for her, casting Gwendolyn a warning look. “Ah, but the cost, sir, the _cost_... here I am reduced to making sport of poor Norfolk in an attempt to defer my creditors...”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn cut through his artful speech, which she suspected was more about asking the prince for a loan than anything else. “They see you as preoccupied with your own pleasure, not caring at all for their plight.”

“Your girl’s a Whig, Prinny!” Poodle laughed.

“And what if she is?” the prince replied haughtily. “Many of my greatest friends are Whigs!”

“Yet one doesn’t see you often at Brooks, these days…” Brummell commented with a sly smile.

“I offered Grey a coalition!” the Prince Regent barked, making Gwendolyn jump. “They wanted peace with Boney! Where would we be now, eh, if they’d had their way? All or nothing, damn them, and they accuse _me_ of betrayal! It was not _my_ pride that was too great, nor _my_ loyalties that shifted! My friends abandoned _me_ – what could I do but put myself in the hands of my father’s ministers? Oh, but _I_ am the turncoat — never fear!”

This rant was greeted with silence, which the prince seemed to take as leave to continue: “And now they side with _Caroline_ at every opportunity — sponsor these attacks on my — my person! Fox would have understood, would have stood by his old friend, found some clever way through…” Anger had given way to lamentation, but none of the men looked surprised. In fact, if Gwendolyn had to judge, she would say they looked bored by the prince’s histrionics — except Norfolk, who snoring quietly into the grass.

 

~*~

 

“Your Royal Highness, if we could just acquaint ourselves with the zoological gardens…?” Brummell was saying.

“No,” George shook his head. His African creatures were all in a pitiable state coping with the cold. The camelopard, in particular, was a great cause of concern, as well as one of the large tortoises. “Go find your zebra in Lambeth!” George snapped. It was ugly, the way Beau was behaving these days: oh-so-respectful when he wanted something and deuced cavalier when he didn’t. “There must be a circus beast about somewhere — I won’t have my presents from the Pasha of Egypt subjected to Norfolk’s state!” 

“ _Please_ , Prinny…” Familiarity intermixed with desperation was something George could not abide. Poodle’s eyes glittered. Brummell could not afford to lose £300 and all of them knew it.

But, as soon as he had come to the resolution to deny the request, George’s heart softened. The man was such a dear fellow and it really _was_ an amusing lark, “La, it’s only three-hundred!” he shook his head, exasperated. “Why should two friends quarrel over such a trifle, eh? You’ve lost anyway, man. The Jockey’s asleep!”

Brummell raised an eyebrow, “Dare I hope that Your Royal Highness…?”

“Yes, I’ll settle your debt of honour,” he smiled indulgently and waggled a finger at his friend, “only this one, mind!”

“Why should you?” Miss Hunt’s voice came unexpectedly from beside him, causing Brummell to look up from his grateful bow, startled. “People are starving — the price of a loaf is over a shilling! And here _you_ are, sir,” her tone was icy, “wagering such sums and demanding zebras!” George gazed at her in astonishment as she continued to browbeat poor Brummell. “It is the _people_ , sir, who pay the prince’s debts. Who are _you_ to demand such funds? No wonder he is unpopular with friends such as yourself who think only to profit from his good nature!”

 _Oh, she is delicious in a rage,_ he thought admiringly; a girl with fire. And she had a point, of course. Lord Liverpool had discussed this with him just the other day. Solidarity — fellow feeling — his prime minister had warned him to curb his expenditure. _But I must finish the pavilion,_ George had explained, _and one simply cannot manage without one’s amusements._  “'Tis only three-hundred, my dear…” he cooed at her, even as part of him was excited by the prospect of his little lass facing down the exquisite Brummell.

“Your mermaid is liable to drown me, Prinny.” Brummell adjusted his cuffs with an admirable show of disinterest.

“And what are _you_ , sir?” Miss Hunt asked, “…a dolphin or a seal?”

It took George a moment before he realised why they were calling each other such names. He gritted his teeth, “Enough! I refuse to have those insulting verses bandied about!” Struggling to his feet, he glared at them all. “Goodnight, gentlemen!” The darkness spun as he stood and he nearly tripped over the unconscious Duke of Norfolk. “For God’s sake!” he cried, “take the man to his mistress, if his wife won’t have him!”

 

~*~

 

The Prince Regent led her back to the house, “You’re a sharp little thing, aren’t you? Scoldin’ the Beau on the funds…” he whispered into her shoulder. Gwendolyn, still in awe over her own audacity, trembled. She had left the blood-soaked loaf in the garden. “And you don’t like me much, hm?”

“I…”

“Oh _yes_ ,” he breathed, hot on her ear, “some vixens like romance, some like jewels, and some like… politics.” She looked up at his suddenly keen eyes and he winked at her. “You must be in _such_ a quandary,” his plump mouth curled into a smirk. “Those fine morals put to so cruel a test.”

“I don’t know… what you mean, Your Highness.” she said, too quickly.

“No?” he smiled. “Well, if you insist... let’s to supper, Miss Hunt.”

The prince’s supper was even more extravagant than breakfast had been: needless trays of dainty little cakes and confections, served with an even wider selection of fortified wines and spirits. There was even a miniature Chinese pagoda made of marzipan. It was served in a smaller setting than the last, which boasted a round ormolu table at which they were seated beside each other in ornate, silk-clad chairs. It was, thankfully, more private. She had entered another world and Gwendolyn fought against it even as it tempted her.

Only a few footmen stood nearby and the two of them were left to serve themselves supper while the servants merely refilled their glasses. She didn’t recognise the alcohol he bade them pour her, but she was hardly knowledgeable about such things. It tasted like early autumn berries, tart and sweet all at once, and she realised that it would be all too easy to down several such glasses without blinking.

Candlelight softened the lines of the prince’s face and his features looked almost handsome, but his eyes remained sharp. It made Gwendolyn uneasy, not knowing what she was doing here, whether it was persuading the prince towards reform or earning his trust the better to secure his downfall. She feared it was neither and she was merely floating in the pool into which she had fallen. She finished her glass, “Do you do this… every night?” Gwendolyn found herself asking, trying to buy herself time.

He laughed, eliciting a jostle of facial flesh, “What, take supper with a lady I hardly know?”

“No, the… the food…” she gestured vaguely at a pyramid of ginger cakes drizzled in what appeared to be caramel sauce.

The Prince Regent popped one into his mouth, “Mm… try these– oh, you mean…?” He nodded, “I take supper _à la française_ most nights. You _mustn’t_ miss a meal, my dear, why you look apt to vanish at any moment.”

Gwendolyn raised her eyebrows, pointedly gazing at her royal companion’s stomach. Two glasses of… whatever it was… ago, such behaviour might have been unthinkable.

“Tush!” he exclaimed, his left hand brushing the length of his waistcoat fastidiously as his right hand closed upon another ginger cake. “That’s another matter altogether.”

“How is that?” she asked, drooping a little, feeling dizzy.

He smiled enigmatically, “Sweet Gwendolyn… you ought to eat something with all that ratafia, you know, or you will be fainting or casting up your account.” And then, sure as you please, he leaned over and slipped a ginger cake between her lips.

Gwendolyn immediately covered her mouth. A long, awkward moment followed, as she chewed it before swallowing. It was warm and faintly gooey at the centre.

There was a smear of caramel glistening on the prince’s upper lip. “Oh, I _do_ beg your pardon, Miss Hunt…!” he gasped – all contrition as though he’d stepped on her toe – holding another ginger cake between his thumb and index finger, not quite offering it to her but also pointedly failing to withdraw it. His blue eyes glittered with promise, and Gwendolyn had no desire to see that promise fulfilled.

“You — you won’t do that again,” she clarified. A shiver ran through her voice and her stomach seemed to flutter.

“No?” he inquired blandly.

“No,” she repeated, hurriedly serving herself some blancmange in self-defence. It was light and wonderfully sweet. He placed the ginger cake ostentatiously on the side of her dish, as though he had always intended to do so, before giving himself up to his own pleasure.

The prince selected a bonbon, turning it over in his fingers, and then examined it carefully, first with his nose and then his tongue; a sniff, a lick, and then a moan of pleasure.  Each delicacy was treated to the same meticulous process and Gwendolyn would have thought he was deliberately trying to unnerve her were it not for the blissful expressions that flickered across his face. It was no simple greed, nothing was hurried – every morsel savoured with a near lascivious delight. “Have you ever tasted anything like it?” he sighed happily. The sounds he made were obscene; licking, sucking, and smacking his lips as though doing something else entirely.

“No,” Gwendolyn shook her head, still eating her blancmange. _If all of London could see the Prince Regent having supper, there would be mob rule in a week._

“That’s Carême for you,” the prince heaved another sensual, shivering sigh. “The best cook in Europe, they say. I think he will kill me… I am paying my assassin £2,000 a year!” he pressed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Have you tried the Viennese nougat?”

She shot him a side-ways glance, unable to find the words to reply, and picked up a ball of nougat. It was soft and golden brown, thick with hazelnuts and candied lemon. “Oh…” Gwendolyn took another piece.

“Mm… you see the temptations I am faced with?” The regent shook his head, dishing himself some blancmange and cinnamon ice. “Tell me,” he murmured, “are you enjoyin’ yourself?” She blushed and his smile widened, “I believe you are, hm?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Gwendolyn replied, and the glance they shared was dangerously conspiratorial. It augured ill, but he somehow contrived to draw her in, even as he repulsed her.

“Capital!” the prince clapped his hands and then downed another glass. “Now, my dear, are you aware of the rules? Have you played before?”

 _What is he talking about?_ “Are we going to play cards?” she asked, confused.

“Cards?” he cast her a bemused look and then laughed. “Oh, bless me, no dear — but you’ve answered my question, at least. No, no… we are playing with one another. But we ought to discuss terms. You, one assumes, are staking your virtue?”

“I — I…”

“Unless, of course, you have something of equal value with which to play…?”

“What do _married_ women play with?” Gwendolyn snapped.

“Their reputations, of course, but — since you’re a novice — I assure you, we shan’t be taking it to that stage.”

“So what do _you_ wager?”

“For you?” he took another bonbon and leaned back in his chair, rolling the sweet between his fingers. “For _you_ , I will wager…” he paused, lazily admiring her, “the reform of the corn laws — pending the approval of my ministers, of course. One is Prince Regent, not Prime Minister.” He popped the bonbon into his mouth with a look of great satisfaction.

 _Could he be in earnest?_  “I… I’ll do it,” she breathed, terrified. “I’ll sleep with you.”

“You haven’t understood a’tall, Miss Hunt.” The prince smiled, holding up a cautionary, chocolate-smeared finger. “ _That_ would ruin the game.”

“I don’t understand.”

He laughed, “Pour the young lady another drink!”

Gwendolyn stared at her reflection: a shivering blur in the dark fruit liquor; her true self, trapped and distorted, muted by alcohol. The lavish dessert did not seem to be soaking any of her dizziness. “So… so… how do I win?”

“Sweet creature,” the Prince Regent murmured as he licked his fingers, “if I knew the answer to _that_ , why, what would be the point of the wager? Now,” he picked the ginger cake off the side of her plate, swirling it in the melted gelato, leaving it drippy and marbled. “If you would open your mouth?”

 

 


	3. Dessert à la Turque

 

_Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself,_

_Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf;_

_Tho’ thro’ narrow defiles he’s not fitted to pass,_

_Who could resist if he bore down en masse?_

_And tho’ oft of an evening, perhaps he might prove,_

_Like our Spanish confederates “unable to move”;_

_Yet there’s one thing in war of advantage unbounded,_

_Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded._

 

_~ ‘Reinforcements for Lord Wellington’_

 

An hour later and pleasure was mingling with nausea. “Lord,” Gwendolyn groaned, one hand rubbing her small, tight stomach. “That’s it… I can’t…”

The Prince Regent was in a far worse position: grunting with pained pleasure. While Gwendolyn had vainly attempted to moderate her appetite, the prince had abandoned himself entirely. He was virtually pinned to his chair by the evidence of his gluttony. Helpless. Just reaching for another bonbon to feed her was proving to be a small struggle for him. The state the man was in was extraordinary. So incapable of denying himself anything, even as it destroyed him _. Of course, that was the mark of a tyrant, wasn’t it?_ It was more than greed… blindness to any sort of consequence in favour of your own gratification.

Gwendolyn could not help but consider how easy it would be to kill him as she placed a crumbly meringue against his mouth, earning a drunken sigh from the prince. She wouldn’t even need to use the cake knife. Were it not for the servants, he would be completely at her mercy. She imagined him still splayed in his chair, all movement ceased, his head lolling on his chest, his ruddy cheeks as pale as marble, his bejewelled fingers hanging limply from his wrists, and a honeyed dainty on the carpet, sticky and half squished, dropped in the moment she pressed the life out of his lungs.

 

~*~

 

 _This will be my last one,_ George vowed to himself tipsily. It was soft and delicious, as he knew it would be: plum, cinnamon, and vanilla, all couched in soft layers of meringue that lingered on his lips. The supper had been intended for quite a few more guests, but that had not stopped them from doing their best to finish it. He reached for a tray of chocolate-dipped sweets and found it difficult to grasp one. The stays were digging uncomfortably into his waist and his breeches felt unbearably full.

A small hand settled atop his own, pressing his palm into the tablecloth. “Your Highness…?” a feminine  voice murmured. _I cannot,_ he thought, _I am too damned stuffed. Stay ‘till morning, my angel, and then you shall have me…_

“Your Highness, it’s late…” _Oh, she was pretty! Roses in her cheeks, lips the colour of jam, her dark eyes glassy with cherry brandy…_

 _The things I do for women,_ he sighed and attempted to heave himself upright. He wiggled, but it was difficult to shift within the deep confines of the seat. “I… don’t think… I… hmm… ah…” he jiggled feebly and then groaned as his body protested. Even through the stupefying haze of drink, he could not help but be embarrassed. _Oh, what she must think of me!_

The lady took his arm. _What was her name?_ He was not certain if it was she or his vision that swayed. A servant took his other arm and together they pulled him upright. George laughed, a little hysterically, as his sides caught against the armrests. He felt faint, unable to get enough air, and the damned chair dug stubbornly into his hips.

“It’s all right, Your Royal Highness…” someone soothed as they finally pulled him out of the thing. The room was blurred, servants melting into candlelight and shadow, but it had stopped spinning. He pulled his arm away from the attendant supporting him, tottering forwards _._ He felt agonisingly full, as wide and taut as a drum.

“My dear!” he cried, staggering, unable to see the lovely creature. It wouldn’t do, losing track of one’s flirt this late, what if she made her bed with some other gentleman? 

“Here…” she was beside him, the dear thing, of course she was!

George sighed in relief and nuzzled the top of her head, flinging an arm around her shoulders. “Delightful creature! Mistress of my fate! Such is the spell you have laid upon me!” He laughed raucously, gasping, his insides too pinched to clench in shame. “You’ll escort me home, won’t you…?”

 

~*~

 

The prince stumbled along beside her, giggling and murmuring drunken endearments like a man half his age. His waistcoat gapped and his wide breeches were fair to bursting. _Keeping the regent in buttons must be a regular industry!_ Servants trailed behind them and, when he almost fell on the stairs, it was one of his pages who caught him; the young man who had spoken to her so earnestly. “Ah, Kerrick!” the prince tittered, leaning gratefully on the young man’s shoulder. “The lady and I have a bet, you see… much better than zebras!”

“Really, Your Royal Highness?” the boy asked gently, helping his unwieldy master up the stairs, not even glancing in Gwendolyn’s direction.

“Charmin’ little minx, you know? A man needs a little amusement… not jus’ stairs and sig-na-tures, eh? _Damned_ stairs!” The regent’s eyes glistened and she realised, belatedly, that he was crying. His breath came in weak, shallow shudders and he kept shaking his head, as though denying some insistent command. _His father went mad, perhaps he is too?_ In the gas light, his wet eyes seemed to have no colour at all.

The page nodded sympathetically, “Almost there, sir… soon you’ll be abed and dreaming of fine things…”

 _He’s so foxed he’s forgotten I’m here._ Gwendolyn stopped on the grand staircase and watched, leaning on the wide balustrade (not so steady herself), as they ushered the delirious Prince Regent to his bedchamber.

The supper… she did _not_ want to think of the supper. But there was little else to dwell on once she had climbed between the cold, smooth cotton of her borrowed bedsheets and doused the candle. Her bloated stomach cramped and fretted, refusing to let her rest. _I did nothing,_ Gwendolyn told herself, trying to settle. And it was true: they had not shared so much as a kiss. _You were ready to give yourself up to that horrible man,_ she thought crossly _, why are you angry now that you did nothing of the sort?_

 _Because then it would be over._ Yes, that was it. O, _Lord forgive me!_ That supper, somehow it had been _worse_ than if the whapping swill tub had ripped off her yellow dress and... _I hate him!_ No, hatred was too feeble a word. Loathing was better. She _loathed_ the enormous, bacon-faced fop! So disgusting and callous that he was only willing to contemplate reform as a receipt for sexual favours!  

Yet, it had been… surprisingly genteel. Feeding each other bonbons and ices (Gwendolyn was not prepared to let the regent have it all his way). When – after being subjected to several little cakes – she had cut off a slice of marzipan column and, eyeballing the prince, brought it to _his_ mouth in challenge, those plump jowls had quivered and his eyes (deeply blue in that moment) had grown wide with excitement, pleasure, and… and a boyish and uncertain _something_ that flickered uneasily across the royal countenance before – as unaffected as a tomcat – he leaned forward and wrapped his lips tipsily around the treat.

 _Faith,_ the page’s words clung to her, _his girth embarrasses him something wicked._ Delight he might in such pastimes (his conversation as plum and glib as ever), the Prince Regent could not snuff out the subtle signs: the slight wobble of his lower lip in advance of each indulgence and the way his hands, when not engaged, unconsciously fussed with his straining waistcoat and the trusses of his breeches, leaving behind little smears on the once-fastidious white.

Oh, it bothered him. _It mounts up, doesn’t it, Your Highness?_   What a pity he couldn’t petition parliament to alleviate his waistline, gathering interest with each bite. But here was a creditor he could not defer with the grandeur of his station. Gwendolyn had lingered in the cruelty of it, feeding the man’s shame. _Eat your heart out, sir._ The rotund regent, it seemed, could do little but oblige.

Yet… could anything be as intimate? Cheeks, mouths, lips, tongues – swallowing – breathless in each pause. He was kissing her: kissing her with sweets, kissing her with cutlery, as tender as any lover. The very air seemed like treacle (musky treacle and orange blossom) as the prince bent forward to press upon her some new delicacy, eyes sparkling, a small smile gracing his features. When his spoon dipped (deliberately?) and coulis slicked down her chin, she had thought now, now he would draw close and gently lap it away – and then, _and then…_

He had wiped her face with a silk napkin, as prim as you please, and that was all.

Gwendolyn groaned, rubbing her bilious gut and longing for sleep. _Would the prince even remember their bargain in the morning?_

 

~*~

 

George floundered and dug his fingers into the corset, trying to wrench it off, while his valet struggled with the laces and clasps. He had fought his way out of the majority of his clothes, heaving for breath, leaving a trail of torn silk and buttons shed like a reptile’s skin. His mouth was fouled by the taste of vomit (caught by an undeserving Sèvres vase). Now he stood, clinging to his page, clad only in his stockings, his trapped shirt, and the infernal bastille of whalebone.

He gasped in relief as the torturous contraption released him, falling backwards onto a chaise and motioning for them to go. Dressing for bed… _deuces take the bed!_ It ought not to be so far away. George did not even bother to peel off his stockings as he buried his face in the soft recesses of the chaise, squeezing his still-wet eyes tightly shut.

Something pricked him and he glanced up. No edge was still, no colour was settled; his chambers seemed to be filled with water. Blinking, George wiped his eyes to phosphenes twinkling like stars. The mirror, however, was serene. The glass shone with an aura of bruised plum. Something touched the back of his knee, extending like a tongue, damp and warm, and George flinched. _Oh…_ he tilted his head to gaze at the mirror and his body followed in a stumbled waddle, mesmerised.

“ _You…”_ and it was his voice and not. It was the Prince Regent of satire, immense and debauched, with curling horns and a pig’s tail; the Prince of Whales all a-blubber in a wine-dark sea. Its eyes were rotten purple and it pressed a hand – a fin, a trotter, a claw, a tendril – against George’s own. Cold like glass.

The creature wiggled invitingly, _“Come…”_

Slavering, the mirror rippled, and George’s fingers shook. “I… you…”

 _“I owe you a kiss, princeling…”_ it garbled into his mouth through crocodile snags ( _but oh its lips, well-furnished and juiced with nectar_ ). Then it broke the surface of the water and George trembled. It smelt like smoke and lotus flowers. A voluptuous, inky creature, crosshatched in winking furbelows, it peeled him out of his shirt and hummed into his embarrassment of naked rolls. He tentatively, allowed himself to rest against its massive, shuddering side. Its Cruikshanked world was greenhouse hot. A jellied excrescence extended, tendering George’s swollen stomach, and he sighed in pleasure as it lifted him towards its bower.

 _“I have a gift for you, George Augustus…”_ it said in not-his-voice, and a runty-snouted, liveried imp, plumed like a parrot, hustled forward and offered him a dish of beady grapes, glistening like plucked eyes amongst roses _à la turque_. _La, but the_ _smell!_ Aromas that had no name but in that very second, blinking into wondrous recognition only to bleed away as he cautiously placed one in his mouth. The exotic fruit dissolved on his tongue and sap trickled down his throat like apple wine – no – apple _pie_. George moaned and the voluminously-fleshed creature cachinnated, its tongue leaning in to fish in the corners of his mouth, before feeding him another grape.

Memory bubbled, rising livid like a bruise: he and Fred had received the fruit tart with all the filling scraped out. His brother had laughed, but George had been furious. It was no royal economy for the sake of the war with the American colonies, like the brown bread they were obliged to bake; someone had made the whole pie and then someone _else_ had spooned out its still-warm contents. He could smell butter, apple, nutmeg, cinnamon… but there was only a tiny seam of sauce remaining, tucked in the edge of the pastry. 

Frederick had been about to divide it up, but George shook his head. _It’s for me, Fred. I’ll eat it._ His brother had complained that it was meant for them both, but he had pulled rank and his brother had given way because it was so unlike George to abuse his position in such a way. If the King thought his eldest child needed to be forced to moderate his appetite then, George vowed, he would _not_ submit.

He did not bother with utensils. This was a performance, after all, for all the eyes and lips that would see his father knew of it. He fought down the urge to cry as he picked up the tart casing in both hands and – taking a deep breath – slurped at the pastry in the most disgusting manner possible. Nose, chin, and brow smeared with sugary residue, George winked at Fred, who began to laugh. He broke apart the crumbling pastry, stuffing it crudely into his maw, his tongue ferreting out every last trace of absent apple filling... _There, Papa! There’s your moderation!_

But it wasn’t _Fred_ laughing… tendrils sashayed and coiled approvingly down his shanks. Admiration juddered and shone out of the monstrous creature, leaving George in little doubt as to its feelings. He clung to it, once more a boy bereft of his father’s love, seizing at whatever weapons he could to revenge himself on the King. He seemed to be sliding into it and it into him, until _he_ was the mass of overblown, warbling flesh and _it_ was the prince in his arms. _Things_ were dancing an old-fashioned cotillion at the edges of his thoughts, flutes piping a dissonant song, and –

“–Your Royal Highness?”

George could feel the hard floor beneath the carpet; his cheek was crusty with dry saliva as he shivered, curling numb limbs toward his chest. His head felt even heavier than his body and he cringed at the strips of light glinting through the brocade curtains. His toes ached like pulled teeth. “Mmpf?”

“You ought to be in bed, sir. Here…” Two pairs of strong arms hauled him upwards and cold fire wrecked up his joints. George screamed and the pages set him back down. It was too much to be borne: headache upon biliousness upon gout. He panted – his eyes were too dry to weep in pain. There were shards of ice in his knees, lances of pitiless agony that only tightened as the afflicted limbs began to swell.

People were moving around him, he gauged through the fug, whispering like little birds. _Please let it pass quickly,_ he prayed. Dr Baillie was being summoned and Dr Saunders and Dr Knighton (though he could not consider bothering Sir Henry, as yet) – but the whole damned brood would soon descend upon him and he was _not_ going to receive those gentlemen in nothing but his stockings, no matter how pitiable his condition!  

“Get me to my bed, damme!” he cried, and his pages hustled about him, jostling him into his bedchamber. It was dear Tom Kerrick he allowed to soak his legs in cold water and wrap them in linen, while his valet drew his nightgown over his head when, by rights, he ought to have been dressing for the day.

The usual platitudes followed as he lay in bed with his legs propped up on pillows and doctors hung about him like crows. They bled him, at least, a good ten ounces. Then it was all _milk, cold tea, tepid soup, and plain bread – and if Your Royal Highness could – if Your Royal Highness would only – most respectfully, Your Royal Highness…_ And _still_ , they would not advise taking colchicum. So laudanum it would be. Great, swaggering gulps of it.

George could still feel the pain, but it retreated like the tide, revealing strange creatures and the shells of men. Proportions slurred and the faces of his servants twisted like the creatures from his dream. His secretary, McMahon, small and pox-scarred, delivered his boxes, champing dapper fangs. Apparently, Castlereagh was asking for one of the blue boxes… some urgency to present certain of its contents to the cabinet, etc… George was forced to make his excuses: he had only gotten through half of the red containers and none of the blue.

“…Would be nice to have a fête, hm?” George opined blearily, after his secretary had left him with a lap tray and a pile of papers to sign. Employing his lorgnette, he squinted at the handwriting of some government scribe. It squiggled and squirmed most dreadfully. He looked up with a sigh (he really was loath to sign anything he was in no condition to comprehend). Young Kerrick was still there, looking remarkably human and hardly ghoulish at all. Isabella chided him for being too familiar with his pages, but who else was one to talk to when in such a state? He patted the mattress beside him.

The lad obediently sat down, “Why, so that you might dance with Miss Hunt, Your Royal Highness?”

George swatted at him, “Insolent whelp!” He pouted, “Here I am, suffering so cruelly from the gout, and you would talk to me of dancing!”

“ _I_ should wish to dance with such a lady,” the page confided.

“I _bet_ you would,” George could not resist the satisfaction that came to his mouth at that moment (even as he recognised that Kerrick was attempting to cheer him by praising his current diversion). He beckoned the other two boys to take up similar perches. They knew that Kerrick was the current favourite, but made no trouble about it, since it was understood that George’s favour meant constant attendance. Excellent young men all; set by their parents on the path of royal service in the hope of high honours. George took a sip of cold, sweet tea and sighed. “So, gentlemen, let’s have your news.”

“I have had a letter from Lady M___, Your Royal Highness!” That was Martin, a young man of romantic sentiments who was highly conscious of how well he looked in his fine royal livery. His clothes seemed to stand brightly out from his skin, muting yet intensifying his finely painted flesh, as though he were a portrait by van Eyck. George felt a flash of jealously. _Oh, to be young again and in love with oneself and the world…_

“Only a letter…” scoffed the rakish, less handsome Gollop from the other side of the bed. The boy curdled like a devil. George blinked. He suspected the lad was getting at the maidservants.

“Ah,” George sighed again. “When you are older, you will begin to appreciate that the chase – tears, letters, and keepsakes – is the charm, la…” His eyes grew misty at the memory of many such tender devotions. Oceans of willing femmes were as nothing compared to a defiant beauty whom the heart yearned to conquer.

“Is that why you did not accept Miss Hunt’s offer, sir?” Kerrick asked.

 _Oh, listening to that, were you?_ George winced as a spar of pain visited his left knee. It took him a moment to find his voice, He gestured at his legs unhappily, “A-and what a pretty fix I’d be in now if I _had_ taken her to this bed of mine!”

Even the candlelight hurt his eyes. He’d ordered them not to open the curtains, leaving everything in murky, gilded gloom _. I will die in just such a gloom_ , he thought _._ How silly he was, still playing at courtship and toying with young ladies. _A fat Adonis of fifty, those curs called me._ “Nothing as attractive to a girl as a fat old man complaining of gouty knees, eh?”

That sent them a-twittering: the dear children were insistent that he was _not_ old (sadly, the only point of contention they felt confident enough to offer!), and he was charming, regal, and handsome besides, and so good natured and generous…

George did not have the strength to call a halt to their blandishments, self-consciously fingering his exposed neck. He hated how thick it was, how – even in his younger days – it swelled to cushion his chin. He remembered how his father, in advance of whipping him for some boyish misdemeanour, had seized him. Not by the cheek or the ear, but by the nub of flesh beneath his jaw, fat enough to snatch. He shuddered, still unnerved by the strange dream that had called up the horrors of his adolescence and the monstrous, slavering caricature of himself. _I need to stop looking at those infernal prints._

“Will Miss Hunt come to the fête?” Kerrick was asking.

 George shook his head, “One could never invite such a woman to anything.” An amusement Miss Hunt might be, but her rank did not entitle her to be anything more. _Still, last night…_ she was citrus to a jaded palate, sharp and novel. One needed a bit of acidity, now and then. He would take her in hand – show her how it was done, as certain gracious older ladies had educated him – but not until she was ready. Miss Hunt had thawed considerably over supper, but the wager was far from won.    

“Unless t’were a _masked_ ball, sir!” Gollop suggested with a grin. “Then the ton could only wonder at who the pretty lady on your arm might be…”

“But they would see it would not be Lady Hertford,” Martin said carefully, glancing at George with concern. _Is that one in the pay of Isabella, I wonder?_ Well, his little stray was nothing to worry a great lady like her.

“If only a mask could grant _me_ such anonymity,” George sighed, his voice soupy with self-pity. There was a sharp, tearing sensation and he whimpered as his right knee continued to throb. Kerrick began to clear away the papers, while Gollop fetched him another pot of tea, and Martin found his copy of _Emma._

George glared at its traitorous red morocco cover. He _did_ want to find out what was going to happen with Mr Knightly... and if there were any more digs at her dedicatee, then it was better to know the worst. But his eyes were still smarting from last night’s drinking and his heart was unequal to the task. George felt like a prison hulk laid up in the mud of low tide, full of recalcitrant elements yearning for escape.

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn left Carlton House that morning, unable to dodge the offer of one of the Prince Regent’s carriages. People glared at it – at _her_ – and there were a few jeers and hisses as she passed. A paper-hatted tradesman shouted: “God save the Princess of Wales!”

When the road narrowed, heading into one of London’s less fashionable districts, Gwendolyn asked to be let off. The whip wasn’t happy to let a young lady go off alone (obviously wary of the regent’s displeasure), but she assured him that she was not far from her destination and desired a walk. He told her that they would wait and urged her to take one of the grooms with her. There were a few curious stares, but Gwendolyn faced them down, insisting that she would be all right by herself.

She was not looking forward to seeing Anne, but Gwendolyn had needed to escape the surreal grandeur of the prince’s home. One of the maids had told her that the regent was indisposed this morning and, after last night, she could well believe it. The thought of meeting him again, awkwardly sober, was more than a little disconcerting.

The sky was the white of undyed wool, damp with hints of rain and vanishing fog. There was still a fair way to walk before Gwendolyn reached her cousin’s address, but she did not want Anne to see her alight from the Prince Regent’s grand and well-despised equipage.

Her old dress (still perfectly decent!) had been thrown away, and she had only the clothes that the prince had ordered made for her. The plainest of these dresses was of white muslin. To keep warm, she had been forced to don a long, garishly-embroidered pelisse lined with black fur. The London air was bitter, though it was only autumn, and Gwendolyn could not help regretting that she had left aside the pelisse’s matching shako (a tower of fur and feathers that would have made even a French cavalryman feel preposterous) as the chill numbed her ears through her cotton bonnet.

The gravelly macadam sucked at her boots. The street had risen like a bog and Gwendolyn wished she had a pair of iron pattens to strap on her feet. She carefully held her skirts above the filth, reluctant to foul the hem of the expensive cloth, revealing her brown, unfashionable boots, which were quickly as filthy as ever they had been.

A scarred sweeper, with the swagger of an old salt, gave her an inquiring bow from across the lane. Gwendolyn shook her head, embarrassed to be mistaken for a fine lady. Even if she had wanted him to put down his planks to assist her over the quagmire, she had no coin with which to pay him. He gave her a sour look as she passed.

Her destination was a two-story house squeezed up next to the first of the bakeries owned by Anne’s husband. Gwendolyn gladly inhaled the warm waft of fresh bread. There was a muttering queue outside the shop, and several beggars had stationed themselves nearby. A man banged his wooden leg into the pavement, offering tales of Waterloo in return for food. It was only a few days ago that her own stomach had been raw with hunger and she wished she had something to offer him.

 _Sweet creature…_ the Prince Regent lolled into her thoughts, chuckling as he ladled strawberry ice down her throat. She cringed, blushing, one hand over her mouth. Standing on a normal street and surrounded by normal people, last night hardly seemed real.

Anne’s front door was defiled with thick, charcoal obscenities only half-scrubbed away. In all these months, she had thought only of her own situation and never considered that her cousin might be facing troubles of her own. Gwendolyn was suddenly ashamed of her resentment. 

She knocked, conscious of the stares of those queuing next door.

It was Anne herself who opened it, holding a poker. “What do you want?” she demanded roughly, staring at Gwendolyn in her embellished pelisse. Her cousin looked haggard; her dark eyes – the same as Gwendolyn’s – were girt with shadows. “I won’t be embroiled in any of your Tripthorne nonsense!” she declared, flustered, with an eye to the queue of interested bystanders, lowering the implement. “We have woes enough as it is without _that_ kind of trouble!”

“I did not come to cause trouble, Mrs Moreau.” Gwendolyn said softly, greeting her like a stranger. “Won’t you invite me in?”

This she did, albeit grudgingly, and Gwendolyn was shocked at how small and shabby the house now seemed. She and Thomas had stayed here for Anne’s wedding to Jocelyn Moreau _. Had they been forced to sell some of their furniture?_ There were bright squares of wallpaper where pictures had once hung. “Well, _you_ seem to have done well for yourself, despite everything!” Anne groused, setting out the tea service. Gwendolyn could see no maid – no sign of any servants at all.

“I… have made an arrangement with a-a married gentleman,” Gwendolyn admitted, shocking both Anne and herself with her candour. “I do not expect it will last, but he… he has been kind to me.” And he had, God help her, he _had_ been kind.

Anne’s mouth fell open, “You, you have…?”

She nodded.

Her cousin was crying, leaning over to embrace her, “I’m s-so _sorry_ , Gwen! I – this is my doing! _Our_ Gwendolyn forced to… your letters, poor Tom! I… Jocelyn said I should write you, invite you to live with us, but business has been so bad with the riots and the price of flour what it is… you see what we are reduced to…!”

“Mama…?”

A little girl stood in the doorway, ogling them in consternation, one finger wound into her dark, curly hair.

Anne stood, wiping her eyes, and beckoning the little one to her skirts. “This is Cousin Gwen, Lucy.” she explained.

“She’s pretty…” Lucy whispered, peering at Gwendolyn past her mother’s dress. 

“Not as pretty as you,” Gwendolyn smiled. _Has it really been so long since Lucy was born?_

Anne lifted the child onto her lap and shook her head, “Jocelyn is trying to hold things together, but he says it will be black bread for everyone but the upper orders come winter – or none at all…”

“Back home, many people were eating potatoes…” Gwendolyn said awkwardly, taking a sip of tea – foul stuff with nothing to sweeten it. The potatoes were small but so few crops had prospered. She could not help but think of the prince’s polished table, laden with treats, as she stared at the dry-looking biscuits Anne had set out. Gwendolyn had been too full from last night to eat before she left Carlton House.

“Oh, potatoes are just as expensive as anything else in London, and they don’t put money in my husband’s pocket!”

“Are you in debt…?” Gwendolyn asked carefully, watching Lucy slowly apply saliva to one of the biscuits.

“Joss won’t let me look at his books,” Anne sighed, “but you see what we’ve been reduced to… still!” Her mouth set in a grim line, “We aren’t yet so poor that I must see a Tripthorne reduced to…” she glanced awkwardly at her small daughter and lowered her voice, “…such _things_ to get by. You will come and live here with us.”

It would be a relief, staying here with Anne, while she found her feet again. Gwendolyn could work and earn her place. It would be a regular life again. Not the one she wanted, but… but the prince’s wager… what could be more important than repealing the laws that had forced the price of flour as high as it was? _If only Anne knew what was at stake…_

“I… he is… he is _very_ rich, Anne.” She hated being unable to divulge the truth. Gwendolyn had never been very good at lying. “He might… help.”

“ _Help_ from the rogue who has ruined my cousin?” Anne scoffed. “What happens when his wife asks how the money was spent?”

“I… uh… they are… separated.” _As though the Princess of Wales would ask how the Prince Regent was spending his money!_ Princess Caroline was in Italy, last Gwendolyn had heard, doubtless having a grand old time. People said, now that their daughter had wed, that he’d paid her to leave England.

Anne looked at her keenly, “So… there is hope for a divorce?”

“No!” Gwendolyn could not help but laugh at such an absurdity. “He’s a toff of the first water, Anne, and a very well-inlaid one at that. He just wants… someone to amuse him.”

Anne cocked a suspicious brow, “And what is the name of this so-called toff?”

Only one false name sprung to mind: “Mr… ah… Mr Hunt. George Hunt.” _What am I saying? No, no it works, provided they never meet. Better to have only one false name to remember._ Lots of men were named George.

“I suppose, knowing _you_ , he is one of those dissipated gentlemen – part of your Freedom Society – who have one rule for themselves and preach republicanism and reform to everyone else.” Their roles had been uncomfortably reversed: Anne was now the pious one and Gwendolyn the pragmatist. For all her concern, Gwendolyn wondered if part of Anne – peering worriedly at her cousin and bouncing Lucy on her knee – enjoyed seeing Gwendolyn brought to such a state.

“No,” Gwendolyn replied stiffly, reluctant to perjure herself further. If she told Anne the truth – about the Freedom Society or the Prince Regent – her cousin would take her for a Bedlamite. But that was not the only thing that stopped her. How could she speak to _anyone_ of what had happened last night? It was too strange, too… too much.   

 “Well, I expect to meet this Mr Hunt,” Anne insisted, “and have him assure me that he intends to do right by my cousin!”

Gwendolyn imagined the enormous Prince Regent sitting next to her, wedged into one of the little parlour chairs, pompously assuring her cousin he had only the best of motives, and nibbling one of Anne’s biscuits while they chatted. She smiled at the ridiculous image, earning her a stern look.

“It is _far_ from funny, Gwen! Honestly, you’re the _last_ person in the world I would have suspected of behaving like… like an actress! I suppose you’re pawning his trinkets to help some charity?” Anne shook her head, biting her lip. “Stupid! What happens if he gets you with _child?_ Have you thought–?”

A scream collided with a high-pitched clap. Gwendolyn jumped to her feet. Shouting, cries, tinkling, and running feet burst over them like sudden, distant fireworks. Anne ordered Lucy to hide upstairs and retrieved her poker from the fireplace, her white face tightly pinched with an emotion that might have been terror or rage. There were no knives on the table, so Gwendolyn grabbed the long fire tongs.

Out of the door and… it was already too late. People were fleeing down the street over broken glass, loaves of bread shoved into sacks, bags, or under their coats. Anne was yelling. A heavy shoulder smacked into Gwendolyn, who slammed the iron tongs against the thief’s head. He staggered, but his momentum carried him forward and –

There was the crack of a pistol. The thief collapsed, smacking thickly into the mud, unmoving.

The one-legged beggar stumbled over, rolling the man onto his back. _He’ll know what to do, he’ll have seen men shot, he —_ “Dead!” the veteran announced to the world at large and promptly snatched up the bread the man had stolen. Incapable of making a quick escape on his wooden leg, he tore into the loaf, wolfing down the evidence as fast as possible

The regent’s groom crossed the street, gun still in hand. In his proper sphere, he was just another servant, but here he looked like a prince himself, with his tall boots and grand uniform. “Are you all right, Miss Hunt?” he asked, in a soft, Irish accent.   

 _He must have had a family of his own at home to be so desperate._ She felt numb, still clutching the tongs. It was hard not to pity the thief, with another man munching over his corpse.

“Ah now… poor fellow.” The groom shook his head, putting away his pistol, “but you’re all right, then?”

“Yes, but you just–”

“Gwen!” she turned at the sound of her cousin’s voice. Inside the bakery, Anne was kneeling beside a young man in a stained apron. He was unmoving and blood trickled from his hairline. “Fetch a doctor!”  

Gwendolyn stalled, caught in the doorway. Everything seemed to be dissolving around her. Normal people, normal street – what was _normal_ any longer? She moved to her cousin’s side, laying a hand on her arm. “A doctor won’t help, Anne. He’s gone.”


	4. Nuncheon à la Mode

 

_Io! Pæan! Io! Sing!_

_To the finny people’s king!_

_Not a mightier whale than this_

_In the vast Atlantic is;_

_Not a fatter fish than he,_

_Flounders round the Polar sea:_

_See his blubbers at his gills —_

_What a world of drink he swills!_

~ ‘The Triumph of the Whale’

 

 

It was only in the late afternoon that George could consider leaving his bedchamber. Between laudanum and blood-letting he had been able to find some measure of relief, though he was still unable to walk. He finished going through the blue boxes for Castlereagh, signed a note to Poodle Byng for Brummell’s £300, and then suffered himself to be dressed and helped into his three-wheeled Merlin chair. It was not something he relished, but it was better than being confined to his room whenever the gout flared up, and the chair’s levers meant that he could direct it himself. He longed to practise with his 'cello, but splaying his swollen knees for the instrument would be too painful.

When he asked after Miss Hunt, he was told that she had gone out, presumably to see her family. Lonely, he penned a letter to Isabella and did not send it. He had been looking forward to visiting an exhibition this afternoon, but had been forced to dispatch Colonel Bloomfield with his apologies. It was with some delight, therefore, that he found a note from Mr Rundell, his principal jeweller, concerning several pieces he had ordered, and invited the man to wait upon him.

 _Ought he commission something for Gwendolyn?_ His memories of last night were a trifle blurred, but he felt fairly certain that jewels would only unsettle the girl. On the other hand, perhaps that was an argument in itself. George enjoyed playing up to people’s expectations of him. He sighed. Cold tea and too few buttery smoked chicken sandwiches had done nothing to improve his mood. _It’s for my health,_ he told himself sternly. Without his corset, he felt like a jelly out of its mould, all swell and wobble, and too damned tight against his waistcoat. He must tell McMahon to make another appointment with his tailors. He fought the temptation to ring for another tray and a bottle of hock.

He received Rundell in his little blue closet — a rare honour for a jeweller. The initial design was by Holland, of course, but George had been very lucky to acquire that wonderful _marchand-mercier_ , Dominique Daguerre, to supervise the interiors. Poor Marie Antoinette had left so many French artisans bereft of patronage. He had been only too happy to provide such talented fellows a safe harbour during the madness of the Terror. Golden fleur-de-lis climbed the drapes, cushioned the chairs, and scattered like stars across the deep blue carpet. The matching velvet walls, framed by gilt panelling, boasted some of his favourite Dutch paintings. Cuyp’s camp scene caught his eye (those delicate flecks of quiet detail about the horse’s legs) and he smiled.  

Outside, the wind lashed the trees and the sky darkened like ink dripped on wet paper. Kerrick put another log on the fire as old Rundell kissed his hand, too polite to mention the royal gout, whilst Martin removed George’s papers and the sadly empty sandwich tray from the circular tortoiseshell table. The glittering pieces Rundell began to unpack were certainly up to his usual standards. George picked up a lovely set of chrysolites, bright like fresh olives, running them between his fingers. “Oh, very fine…” he murmured and Rundell made a small bow.

A collet of pink sapphires next drew his attention – perhaps a gift for his daughter – and here was his diamond cypher, finished at last, a twinkling swirl of a ‘G’… now _that_ would make a pretty keepsake for a mistress! No, far too soon for any of that. Ah — amethysts! Rundell was talking about setting them with diamonds but they ought to sing for themselves, linked together by a little filigree…

“Your Royal Highness?”

George looked up, surprised by the interruption. “Yes?”

Gollop made a reverence as he poked his nose around the door. “The Duke of York is here… and you asked to be informed when Miss Hunt returned…”

“Show my brother in!” George grinned, putting down the amethyst he’d been admiring, and then cringed as pain bit into his legs. Rundell began to pack up his wares but George waved him off, thanking the jeweller and telling him that he would take everything except for the amethysts, because he wanted them set.

“Nothing too exuberant, mind!” George cautioned, knees smarting.

“A simple design then, Your Royal Highness?”

He nodded, dismissing the man. McMahon would sort out the details.

His brother entered the room with a bow _—_  George’s due as eldest son and their father’s regent _—_  but he immediately straightened. “Heard your gout was playing up,” he said, offering a sympathetic nod toward George's swollen, bandaged legs.

“Oh, it comes and it goes…” George sighed, trying to look unaffected. One of his pages pulled a chair forward, and he gestured for his brother to sit down.

They were almost exactly a year apart in age _—_  but for four days they would have shared a birthday. Frederick looked a little more like their father than he did (thank God, he had been spared that rudder of a nose). At fifty-one, dear Fred had lost most of his hair and did not care to wear a wig. Although he had put on weight away from the field, he wore it with the spry indifference of a military man and his red field marshal’s uniform became him very well. George tried to push aside the itch of envy.

“Speaking of comings and goings…” Fred sat down with a smirk, glancing with interest at the trinkets spread out on the table, “I saw a sweet little thing alighting from one of your barouches on the way in.”

“Oh… I couldn’t say as to that…” George replied airily.

Fred laughed. “You! Just when everyone thinks you mean to settle down, you change horses — and not your usual matronly type, either — more my sort of dish — just as Poodle described. Where’s the rest of her, eh? Girl’s a whippet!”

 _Damned quick work — even for Poodle! Well, he was the only one of them half-way sober. I suppose he must have gone back to the club._ He did not want Miss Hunt’s name bandied about. The girl had no notion of society and he had promised that she was not bartering away her reputation. Nor did he want to have to make a choice between beautiful, voluptuous Isabella and diverting little Gwendolyn. George raised his eyebrows indignantly. “A great many ladies — thin and stout — visit Carlton House, brother, and leave entirely without my having anything to do with them.”

His brother scoffed. “You cannot fool _me_ , Georgie.” Fred picked up the pink sapphires, dangling them from one finger. “You are, at this very moment, contemplating covering your whippet in jewels – admit it!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” he sniffed, but it was a lost cause. Frederick knew him too well.

Fred dropped the necklace back onto the table. “I suppose a skinny girl like that will want a bit of something to cosy up to on these cold evenings…”

“Do leave off, brother!” George snapped.

Frederick smiled. If George had been asked the identity of his closest friend in the world, he would have named Fred without a moment’s hesitation. Frederick had duelled to protect his honour and stuck by him when he could easily have rested on his laurels as the King’s favourite son, but there was an awkwardness between them now that would not settle. Old jealousies rankled, even as they tried to mend their friendship. Although he had reinstated his brother as Commander-in-Chief (it was not _his_ fault Fred’s mistress had been selling commissions!), he despaired of ever regaining that easy loyalty they had once shared. “Did you go to the exhibition?” George asked, in an effort to change the subject.

“No — too busy — missed nuncheon, actually. It isn’t like you not to offer a body some refreshment, you know…”

“Oh, I do apologise – blame my doctors...” George sighed. It was exceedingly rude of him not to have offered. “They have prescribed cold tea, French beans, bread, and barley water — you cannot _imagine_ my suffering, Fred!”

“What, no meat at all?”

“Not even cheese,” he huffed sadly, deciding not to mention the chicken sandwiches.

 “A man can’t live off beans!” Frederick shook his head. “Forget that rot and order us some claret and a late nuncheon and I’ll tell you what I’m about and then you’ll tell me all about your latest conquest.”

George hesitated. He really _ought_ to demur, but what was the use? Two days of beans and broth would make no difference to anything. He would still be as fat as ever and the gout would come and go as it pleased. And it was his duty as a host, after all. He flicked a hand in Martin's direction. “See to it.” The boy bowed and scampered off to tell the kitchen staff what was required.

As the jewels were carefully bundled away and a cloth laid over the little Boulle table, his brother leaned back and frowned. “It’s a bad business, George — the weather we’ve had.”

“Oh, ghastly…” George nodded, glancing out the window. _It will rain soon,_ he thought. Whenever it rained these days, it seemed to rain for an age. A cosy pleasure settled over him: a good day to be stuck at home, in spite of everything. Paintings could wait.

Fred took a deep breath. “There is a general concern, in this extraordinary climate, that there won’t be a harvest.”

“What do you mean?” George frowned as two footmen entered to set the table.

“You know," Fred shifted in his chair, "that I was involved in reviving the Association for the Relief of the Manufacturing and Labouring Poor…”

George nodded. “A worthy endeavour indeed and one I support.”

“Our meeting in the City ended in complete uproar. Lord Cochrane was there — he is hand in hand with Henry Hunt — I had to quit the meeting. Things are turning ugly and I very much worry that if something is not done, we shall—”

Their nuncheon arrived, interrupting Frederick. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but pleasant to both princes: several cheeses (some fine stilton, a creamy Wiltshire loaf, and a delicate little Chabichou _fromage de chèvre_ ), roast pork, the remains of the smoked chicken, salmon and cucumber sandwiches, lemon sponge cake, and macarons.  

Frederick took a quaff of the requested claret, a Haut-Brion according to the silver label laced around the bottle’s neck, and cut himself a slice of pork. “Mm — as I was saying — we will see far worse than we already have by the end of winter. They are already talking as though all sinecures were robbery…”

“That villain Cochrane has never forgiven me for stripping him of his Order of the Bath,” George said bitterly, beginning with a piece of delectably soft goat’s cheese and the crisp glass of hock he’d been longing for all afternoon. La, how lovely it was to see an end to Napoleon’s embargoes — French cheese and German wine! And such a delicate white wine it was; dry, with a hint of peach, and the perfect measure of acidity. Hang doctors! “…It does not surprise me to find him stirring up trouble.”

“You are not _listening_. Cochrane, Cobbett, and Hunt are a nuisance, but if we do not find some way to assist those suffering, I fear for this country. No harvest – imagine it!”

 _No harvest._ George watched the footman refill his glass. There had already been riots over the price of bread. He shuddered, thinking of the grim parcel Miss Hunt had found last night. “You aren’t serious?” He managed, taking a salmon sandwich.

“I’m quite serious. I felt I ought to tell you myself because no one in government seems to be very concerned.” He bit into a piece of stilton, “Has Liverpool mentioned it to you?”

“No.” George replied, unsettled by the idea that his prime minister was keeping such a thing from him. Certainly, he had advised George to economise, but people had been advising him to do _that_ since he was a boy. When would they understand that he was not his dull, parsimonious father? He was the regnant prince of Great Britain and his position demanded a style of living equal — or superior — to that of the royal houses of Europe. “He says that the harvest may be late this year, but will be perfectly fine… in fact, he complained that it was being mentioned as a party issue at all.”

Fred nodded, “That’s what I read in _The Times,_ and even the _Morning Chronicle,_ but I think it’s a question of desperate hope… or they’ve been got at. Faith, Castlereagh told the American ambassador that he’s had reports of a good harvest _—_  and expected six weeks of fine weather! Adams didn’t believe a word of it and quite right. Well, that was in August and all we’ve had is frost!”

George set down his glass, drew himself upright, and nearly bit his cheek at the jolt of agony as the movement shifted his legs. He would need another dose of laudanum soon. “You are saying,” he said, very slowly, gripping the arms of his chair, “that my ministers are _lying_ to me?”

His brother looked grave. “I… I think they are deceiving themselves as much as anyone. I passed through several towns on my way to London crowded with haymakers unable to get work. I expect such poverty in the city, but… by God, George, this winter — I fear it. And who will they blame for all this misery — it won’t be that dog, Liverpool, eh?”

 _They see you as preoccupied with your own pleasure, not caring at all for their plight._ Miss Hunt’s words returned to him and he slumped. _Of course the people will blame me, damn them._ How he missed the days of his youth when they cheered him so! Now the cheers went to his daughter, Charlotte. His sun was already setting and he was not yet king. _Papa will outlive me out of spite, I suppose._ “This is England, Fred.” George’s voice was soft. “Are you suggesting that I invite someone else to form a government? We tried to achieve a compromise before. Believe me, the rogues would be already be out if I had better men to put in their places…”

Frederick shook his head and finished his Haut-Brion, “I only ask you to make them see that no one ever got anywhere just hoping things turn out for the best. Perhaps start buying foreign grain now as a precaution…?”

“Do you mean to say… repeal the Corn Laws?” he said it slowly, wondering at the circumstances. The long war with France had accustomed British landowners to expect high prices for their produce. The laws passed last year were to protect British interests in the wake of peace in Europe, prohibiting the importation of foreign grain. In truth, George had simply offered Miss Hunt what he thought she most wanted to hear. The opportunity to approach this with some degree of seriousness was an amusing coincidence. But it did not suit the dignity of his position to be thinking about widespread famine only as it impacted his private liaisons. He would have to speak to Liverpool about this. _Poor wretches,_ he thought as he took a bite of cake, the roof of his mouth thick with lemon frosting, _what a horror._

 

~*~

 

It was distressingly comforting to return to Carlton House. Gwendolyn had supported Anne as best she could, but here _—_  no one was going to fire a pistol within these elegant confines. No one was going to die. She left her murderous escort outside. Past the giant shadow of the carriage porch, people spoke in hushed voices. She felt like a traitor for returning here and leaving Anne and Lucy alone to await Jocelyn’s return. The world was shredding, separating out into separate eddies of existence, and she was caught in the circling current, swept round from one to the other and back again.

There were fewer people today, seated and standing, dwarfed by the cavernous classicism of the prince’s entrance hall. Their faces turned to look at her, but Gwendolyn kept moving, indifferent to their curiosity. 

“Miss Hunt!” Gwendolyn turned to find an anxious footman at her elbow. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hunt, but your — your boots!” She looked down. Like a snail, she’d marked her progress with a smeared trail of muck across the black and white marble tiles.

“They are the only pair I have with me,” she explained, her voice small but unapologetic.

He bit his lip, chewed it, and then stared at her helplessly. “As… you say, miss.” The servant made her a despairing bow and then withdrew, presumably to fetch a mop.  

Gwendolyn stared after him. The regent’s murmuration of guests regarded her with a singular focus, echoing up towards the vaulted ceiling. The attention was oddly liberating. She sat down on one of the scrolled oak chairs and removed her boots. Her fingers trembled a little on the laces, but she was determined not to let them fluster her. She had seen two men die today.

Gwendolyn stood, feeling the cold, slippery marble through her stockings. She half-glided forward as though on ice — earning herself the widespread astonishment of the room — holding her skirts in one hand and her boots carefully away from her dress with the other. It was the obvious solution, surely?

The marble tiles stretched out through doorways like a glassy, underground lake. They were still looking at her. The dead. Gwendolyn pushed forward, skidding experimentally on her toes. “She’s mad,” a gentleman breathed, and that was all the encouragement she needed.     

Lengthening her stride, Gwendolyn slid past reception rooms and around columns, obeying the simple impulse to outstrip everything but movement itself. The splendour of Carlton House became a blur of fine colours and abruptly-avoided _objets d’art_. She was forced to dodge a plinth upon which resided the roguish countenance of Charles James Fox and almost collided with a Chinese urn. Exhilarated and out of breath, she fetched up against one of the double doors of the regent’s private apartments with a smack.

A young page stood by, one she did not recognise. He grinned at her as he opened the other door for her. “Welcome to the Blue Room, Miss Hunt. His Royal Highness is presently engaged, but if you would care to wait?”

Her feet almost disappeared into the blue carpet. Out of breath, Gwendolyn seated herself on one of the silk-clad couches. A clock ticked. Through the ornate white and gold doors at the far end of the room, she could hear the sound of male voices, but nothing of what was said. A grand mahogany desk — the regent’s desk — dominated the room. She put her boots on the floor. Rain licked down the long windows and dry, painted clouds drifted across the ceiling.

In the curve between the ceiling and the blue velvet walls were ships crossing bows and plump, chalky maidens wrapped in diaphanous shawls — all against a blue that might have been the sea or the sky. Anne hadn’t been able to stop crying and Lucy had stared at her with dry-eyed incomprehension. Gwendolyn’s actions suddenly seemed utterly foolish. What was she thinking, making such a spectacle of herself? Stupid. 

The door opened and closed. A ruddy-faced, balding man emerged: all sashes, boots, and grand red jacket. Gwendolyn stood. He looked a little like the regent — especially about the eyes — one of his ducal brothers? When he saw her, he clapped his hands together and stomped over.

“I knew it!” he grinned, giving her a deep bow and looking her over with a practised air. “What is your name, my lovely?”

“Gwendolyn Hunt, sir.”

“Charmed,” he smiled. “The Duke of York at your service, pet. And where did my brother find you?”

 _You would not believe me if I told you._ “I… could not say, Your Grace.”

“Hm — a coy one. What happened to your shoes?”

They both glanced at the boot-shaped piles of mud sitting on the carpet next to Gwendolyn’s stocking-clad feet. “I went for a walk,” she said with a shrug.

“Fine stuff!” he exclaimed. “Prefer to ride, myself, but it takes all sorts… and shows off those dainty toes of yours, eh?” He laughed and then took her hand. “Look after my brother, Miss Hunt, won’t you?”

The duke’s assumptions were even more uncomfortable than his hot, clammy hand, “I… I don’t…”

“High time the Hertfords got stung — Yarmouth has been unbearable — and you’re the little minx to do it, hey?”

Isabella Hertford was the regent’s Tory mistress, she knew, but Gwendolyn had no idea who Yarmouth was. “I don’t believe the prince considers me in that light,” she offered, cautiously. He had yet to release her hand.

“If you say so, m’dear! I won’t keep you from… whatever _business_ it is you have with my brother but… if you tire of him, do come and see me, won’t you?” He kissed her hand with a whisper of whiskers and then sallied out of the room. Gwendolyn sat back down, wiping her hands on her pelisse. _Is that how all men will look at me now?_

The page threw her a stuffed-frog smirk and crossed the room to crack open the far door. After a moment of quiet conversation, he shut it again and returned to his post with no explanation. “When will His Highness see me?” Gwendolyn asked awkwardly.

The page’s voice was cold: “His Royal Highness will see you at his convenience.”

 

~*~

 

 _Miss Hunt was on the other side of the door, waiting._ George sighed as Kerrick carefully dripped laudanum into his cherry brandy, counting the drops. The sound washed into the rain outside. The bitter taste of the drug dissolved into the sweetness of the Maraschino. George did not sip at it, but downed the lot in one sound swallow. It rang his head, blossoming slowly, brightening the contours of the room.

He had imagined his next encounter with little Gwendolyn. In his mind (for some unaccountable reason), she was wearing one of Georgiana’s old gowns — the glory of 1787 — white silk wrapped in green ribbons, all coif and flounce. And he, well he was as he was (or perhaps just a little thinner), standing splendid in one of his dark coats with a high fur collar and long, immaculately creased trousers, everything pulled up and tucked in, everything _just_ _so_ …

Not like _this_. His legs – his best assets! – were useless and swollen with gout. Without his corset, his waist had no regard for his dignity; spilling onto his thighs and regarding his clothes as the sea regards the shore, slopping against a retaining wall at high tide. It was all very well to receive one’s jeweller and one’s brother without stays, but if Miss Hunt was daunted by the prospect of him at his most charming, dressed for the evening, then what would she possibly make of him in this moment? Her dark eyes would miss nothing.

He stared helplessly at the door and then glanced back towards the table. Fred, that unfeeling dog, had left most of the damned nuncheon untouched. He put an anxious hand to his throat, careful not to disturb the intricacies of his cravat. His fingers patted the soft flesh, feeling along the line of his jawbone. All was well: no one was going to glimpse his unsightly neck. George knew what harsh critics the young and beautiful could be; ruthless, the lot of them. But Gwendolyn… feisty little thing… he wanted to woo her, perhaps just to prove that he was still the prince of pleasure. Bedding the girl wasn’t the point — any buck could do that. But love…

“Your Royal Highness?” Kerrick hovered beside his chair, all concern. “Shall I show the lady in?”

“No,” he whispered, blinking sleepily as the opium took effect. His nape prickled and the rain intensified, clawing at the glass. He took a rosy macaron, closing his eyes as he crunched through the almond meringue into smooth buttercream. _God._ He was hopeless, utterly hopeless.

“But–?”

He hardened his tone: “I will not see her today, Kerrick. I shall not repeat myself.”

The boy bowed and slunk back to the wall as George took another macaron — this one yellow. The doors to the next room seemed to loom, pulsing as though the gilded boiserie possessed a heartbeat. _No, that was his, wasn’t it?_ It was difficult to tell. Loneliness chewed up his mouth. He was floating in a lagoon of white ganache and the air smelt like the death of a fine evening: wilted roses, soured punch, marzipan, drippy beeswax, cigarillo smoke, chalk smeared onto everyone’s shoes, a kick of brandy, the salt of feminine arousal, the musk of his own, and the perfumes of a hundred guests mingled into sweat.

The room breathed and George shuddered, half-gone. His bloated knees tweaked him back and he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. _Gwendolyn. No, Isabella… no, no… Maria!_ What were they playing at, leaving him alone like this? He brushed the crumbs from his waistcoat. His aching legs had fused into a large, heavy tail. He stared at it in astonishment. It was a formed like a seal’s tail, stout and blubbery, ending in little flippers. Yet — instead of dun-coloured fur — it was covered in brilliant scales, like those of some oriental fish. They glimmered, catching the light. George ran a hand down the side of his thigh, entranced.

He could feel the creature’s breath on his neck, rustling the silk of his neckerchief. It was behind him, its long tongue slurping the air, licking its lips. A log cracked on the fire and George shuddered, turning in his seat, but there was only the familiar room and Kerrick standing against the wall. But the tail remained, watered by the shadows streaking down the windows. _Am I going mad like Papa? Perhaps it is hereditary._ There had been no recognition in the King’s eyes, mirrors to his own, the familiar face curled into a snarl. _No, no… he’d taken opiates…_

Uneasy, George took another slice of sponge. The cake was soft against the brightness of the lemon. Butter, sugar, flour, and eggs — anchoring him to the room, reassuring. The din of the rain seemed to swallow the world.

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn waited, listening to the percussion of the rain. It might have been evening, the sky was so dark. The clock continued to tick, its face staring out of a swirling white and gilt confection. It sat on a marble mantle, above which hung an immense square of mirror. She stood, stretching her legs, and regarded herself critically.

Her face was reassuring. The same face, undoubtedly. Her dark hair too was its customary self, curling off in odd directions despite being drawn up into a bun. Eyes… were eyes ever the same? Her gown and pelisse made her think of a paper doll; new, neatly-drawn, fashionable ornaments folded strangely against an awkward, two-dimensional body.

The echoing chime rang four o’ clock. Why had Gwendolyn presumed that she was above all the fine ladies and gentlemen who were accustomed to wait hours to see the regent? It had only been half an hour. _Why am I here?_ She should have stayed with Anne — he’d likely forgotten her and their bet entirely. Lucy would need looking after while Anne and Jocelyn struggled to mend the damage and visited the lad’s family.

But after the watch were called, the dead carted away, and a Bow Street man had noted the particulars, all Gwendolyn had wanted to do was return to Carlton House. _He can help,_ she had told Anne _._ It would be a trivial thing to him. Her cousin had too much pride to ask Gwendolyn’s protector for help, but she would ask nevertheless. But was it really concern that had pulled her away? It wasn’t concern that had led her to make an exhibition of herself in the regent’s hall. She wondered at how unfeeling she seemed; a feckless foreigner in her own mind.

“How long before the prince is free to see me?” she asked the page.

“I could not say,” he replied stiffly.

She stared at the doors. Tall and elegant, their panels delicately carved, they hardly seemed like doors at all — two more pieces of art set into the blue velvet walls. Time lost itself in these stately rooms; the gilding heavy with hoarded hours. But how much time did anyone really have?

Her patience at an end, Gwendolyn stood. She walked towards the other side of the room — slowly, careful not to draw the attention of the page. Again, she felt the allure of doing something forbidden; of breaking a magic spell. She stared up at the ceiling, the chandelier, and the oil paintings — as though marvelling at such artifice, until her back pressed against one of the doors. Reaching behind her, she wrapped her fingers tightly around the golden handle.

“Miss Hunt!” The page squawked, but he was too far away as the door clicked open at her touch. Gwendolyn grinned, swinging backwards into the next room and shutting the door in the lad’s face. A pretty brass key sat in the lock and she turned it for good measure.

Two sets of eyes regarded her with total astonishment.

The chief page — Kerry? — stood silently by the hearth, raising his eyebrows at Gwendolyn before glancing anxiously towards his master.

The Prince Regent was reclining in a high-backed invalid’s chair. His legs and feet were thickly-bandaged and elevated by a cushioned shelf. He peered up at her, as though unable to decide whether or not she was really in front of him. Another banyan was draped about him: splashy green silk winged with silver birds. But while his cravat still did its proud best to conceal the prince’s chins, his waistcoat bulged like a dumpling, spilling little puffs of white linen, the bottom buttons undone, unable to close over his high-cut pantaloons.

 _How can he have grown so much fatter in one night?_ Gwendolyn gave him a courtsey, looking away, perplexed and embarrassed.

“…You’re not wearing shoes, Miss Hunt,” he said, eventually. He did not look drunk, but his voice was languid and a little slurred.

She had left her boots in the other room. “Neither are you, Your Highness.”

His hand wandered to the table beside him, lavishly spread with cheeses, cold meats, a few sandwiches, and sweets. “I suppose not…” The prince’s fingers fluttered over a dish of pastel macarons, like a plump spider dangling from a line of invisible thread. But then he drew back, tapping his nails against the arm of his chair. “My knees, you know… will you — will you not sit?” He gestured towards a chair.

The rain filled the silence as Gwendolyn sat down. This room was very like the last. The same blue velvet scheme but smaller… more intimate. She wanted to talk about Anne, about the groom who had shot a man, about the price of bread, but his gaze left her mute. Eventually, she forced out some words: “The Duke of York thinks I’m your mistress.”

He sighed. “I’d imagine so, larking about my chambers like an unshod filly… have you eaten? I ordered this for my brother, but he… he left without having much of a go at it.” Gwendolyn had not touched anything but tea and biscuits since last night, so she did not question the awkward justification, thanking him and picking up a sandwich. The salmon and cucumber had left the thin bread a bit soggy.

“As for being my _mistress_ …” He gave a lazy hum. “Well, what’s that? We are not in the court of Louis XV where ‘twas an official position.”

“What about Lady Hertford?” She asked, picking up a piece of chicken and trying not to look at his straining waistcoat, unable to resist the question.

“What of her? Have you done anything to warrant the attention of the irreproachable marchioness?” His eyes grew large, “La, don’t tell me you’ve been flashing your pretty feet at her husband?” She bit back a giggle, more at his play-acting than the joke itself. “There — Gwendolyn,” he nodded, gently satisfied, “you are smiling.”

And she was. She felt it hover, disbelieving, against her face. Not a tightly-wrought edifice wrenched out of her mouth, not a simpering mask, not a defiant blade of teeth, but a simple upward curve. Gwendolyn shook her head, at a loss, staring at the Prince Regent.

“Come here,” he said imperiously, beckoning her over.

Her smile fell away. “I don’t think - I…”

The prince’s voice softened. “Oh, it is nothing naughty, Gwen… and we do not bite, except upon a lady’s request.” He patted his lap with a little grin, but the levity did not reach his grey eyes, which were oddly glassy. She did not believe him.

 _Do I have a choice?_ But then, hadn’t she barged in on him? Given him every impression that she was as keen to continue this as he was? Gwendolyn stood up – wary of the notice of the page standing at attention across the room – and moved around the table. The prince caught her tense hand and drew her into his cloud of orange blossom. His fingers were without rings. Longing to pull away, she lowered herself reluctantly into his lap, furious with him for giving her an order and herself for obeying it. “Mind the tail,” he murmured with a wince, gesturing towards his legs.

Gwendolyn adjusted her seat, careful of the linen wraps, and put her arms reluctantly around his waist, resisting the urge to poke at his fubsy sides. There was so much movement, like pressing against a goose-feather pillow. The prince’s fingertips skimmed over her ribs. Then one hand slid up the rope of her spine and the other splayed against her diaphragm; a warm net catching her breath stutter.

The regent seemed to her like an immense plant grown in a hot-house, knowing nothing of the sky, of birds or gales, surrounded only by butterflies. Then she met his eyes, raw and half-closed, and knew that wasn’t right at all. _I was going to kill this man._ His lips tasted of sugared lemon.  

“Not so bad, eh?” He drawled when the kiss ended, quirking a diffident brow. His voice was suave but his face searched her own. Still, Gwendolyn couldn’t look away, couldn’t bear to look down at the awful sprawl of him. Her nails dug into his waist and she had to ease them back. The carriage ride returned to her and she blushed: his warmth, his scent, his softness… But this was completely different, composed of so many miniscule details. Faint lines around his mouth ran into jowls like deltas meeting the sea; the auburn length of his eyelashes, long for a man; the slight grease to his wig.

He felt so real, so solid, the centre of this place and time. Perhaps it was another form of mutual annihilation, leaning forward to kiss him again.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delightful Stays was kind enough to beta this chapter for me. : )


	5. Miel de Fleurs

_Fat as that Prince’s maudlin brain,_

_Which, addled by some gilded toy,_

_Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again_

_Cries for it, like a humoured boy._

_For he is fat, — his waistcoat gay,_

_When strained upon a levee day,_

_Scarce meets across his princely paunch;_

_And pantaloons are like half moons_

_Upon each brawny haunch._

 

~ ‘The Devil’s Walk’

 

A first kiss: nothing so nervous — tender, tentative — a question and an answer. She did not open her mouth. He sucked at her bottom lip. They parted. Gwendolyn’s face floated above him whilst her hands pinched at his waist, shifting her grip, clinging as though she were a lost sailor and he the timbers of a wreck. George, used to caresses that skimmed with gentle fondness, was not sure he liked to be pawed so intrusively. The sharp bones of her rump dug into his thighs as she moved.

Another kiss. He would not say that it would beat Caroline’s slipshod monstrosity (all spittle and teeth), as the worst kiss he had ever received, but it lingered in its unpleasantness with the slow discomfort of a dream. _This is why one should only court married women,_ he thought. Her fingers were still groping him, searching out the rolls of fat at his sides and brushing over them with her thumbs, as though deliberately bringing attention to his embarrassment of flesh. George felt himself flush. The blue devil was laughing. Its tendrils, plump and silky, snaked along his shoulders. _“Look at you…”_ it simmered.

George laughed too — a nervous spasm — and batted her arms away. “My dear…!”

The girl sat back, smiling (also without opening her mouth), and her hands pulled away only to settle at his front, stroking the stripes of his waistcoat. “Your Highness,” she answered him, her mouth finally giving way to an impish, disbelieving grin.

 _Such a pretty thing._ Those teasing little fingers tip-toed over his stomach and he bit down a giggle. A jolt of pain flickered up his shimmering tail but its echo was like distant thunder. Her fingers moved like hounds scenting blood and he laughed, helplessly caught up in her ministrations. “Oh, I – oh!” he panted, trying to form words through the tickles.

She stopped, obviously pleased with herself, a few licks of dark hair curling free of her artful coils. The room blurred — lapsing from velvet and fleur-de-lis to the dappled light of the sea — but it was only Gwendolyn, his glorious nymph, who mattered. He leaned forward, wishing he were not quite so conscious of the swell of his gut between them, and trailed tender kisses down her neck. She sighed, leaning into him, sliding her fingers up into the fine hair beneath his wig, and then down into the folds of his —

George took hold of her wrist, drawing it away from his cravat and placing it over his heart. “My sweet,” he murmured, “how you enrapture me…” Those pitiless hands!

“Your Highness?” she was giving him an odd look, one eyebrow raised.

“Ah, and that — ‘tis so formal, Gwen, between ourselves…” he affected a languid air, kissing each of her mischievous fingers, trapping them firmly within his own.

“What shall I call you, then?” Her dark eyes were intent. Waves crashed against the windows. The firelight and the evening dark painted their skin a mould-dusted apricot; gold turned to grey in each curve of shadow. “I can’t call you _George_.”

He wasn’t averse to hearing his given name on a lady’s lips, but George understood her reluctance; it was a kind of respect, after all. “Why ever not?” he asked, playfully. “It’s an excellent name — and lots of them about — one is never alone at a party, always sure to meet another George or three, exceptionally fine fellows…”

“I’m sure they are, Your Highness.” She was trying not to smile again. The ocean seemed to ease, its clamour gentling to a largo.  

“There’s my second name, Augustus…” George teased. “Gus, Gussy? What do you think?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“No? Hm, _well_ …” he kissed the side of her thumb. “If we are to be _very_ close, my dear, what about Prinny? Short for Prince of Wales, so who could complain?” 

“Prinny…” her lips tasted the name, first one syllable and then the other. It was only from this point George could truly begin to take the measure his acquaintances: by what they did with the honour of his favour. She looked a little exposed by it. Rub away the H.R.H. and she must consider the man. Gwendolyn was not a good actress but he recognised that she had, to some extent, been following a ‘script, however poorly (may it please Your Highness, et cetera).

“Gwinnie…” George replied, amused. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached across the table, feeling for the crystal stem of his glass. It was lighter than he expected. Empty. He glanced toward the sideboard. There were several tipples available without sending for more: the last of the Hochheimer, half a bottle of Haut-Brion, the Maraschino, an unopened bottle of champagne, and some _Vin de Constance_. “Let’s have a toast, hm? Constantia, I think. Have you tried it?”

“No,” she answered, slipping off his lap and padding over to the bottles. The water merged with the rustling of her dress. Kerrick, George noticed belatedly, had quit the room. Good — discreet lad.

“This one?” she asked, pointing at a stout black bottle.

“Oh… perhaps,” he shrugged, knowing her to be correct. His legs had returned, which was both a disappointment and a mercy. He felt acutely the distance between himself and his appearance. How wrong they were to cast him as a whale! If he felt any kinship with a marine creature, it was with the crab, retreating into the safety of its splendid carapace. A Fellow of the Royal Society had once explained to him, over a course of _petit crabe mou_ sauced generously in garlic butter _,_ that hermit crabs were obliged to seek out larger shells as they aged. At this moment, he felt quite like a decapod in need of a new conch. George adjusted his waistcoat. What was he thinking, entertaining a lady in such a state?

Gwendolyn worked the bottlescrew and poured them both a glass of Cape muscat. George had ordered sixty cases of the stuff to last out the winter. Apparently, Bonaparte was in receipt of thirty bottles a month on St Helena, but there had to be some geographical perk to imprisonment on a small island off the west coast of Africa. It had been a very proper letter the man had sent him, quite touching, but one simply could not have him in England.

“To what shall we drink?” he asked, taking his glass from Gwendolyn with a smile. 

“New friends?” she proposed shyly, standing beside his chair.

They clinked glasses and drank. La, the sweetness of overripe _Muscat de Frontignan_ bathed by the antipodean sun; that gorgeous bouquet of fig, marmalade, and _tarte tatin_ — all of it swept up in oak and blood orange — and magically finishing in the beautiful clarity of honeysuckle, nectarine, and imperial hyson.  

“What do you think?” It was always a pleasure to treat people to their first bib of a truly superior wine.

“It’s lovely,” Gwendolyn took another sip, “like autumn and spring all at once.”

 _You’re lovely._ If he were her age, he would already be kissing her feet (and working his way upwards from there). Alas, those days were long behind him. But then, he no longer quaffed half-pints of gin. George put his nose over his glass, luxuriating in the aroma.

His whippet — a pox on Fred! — was a creature meant for a connoisseur. A young man would call her too thin, find her fire distasteful, and lament her shyness. Whereas he could appreciate what six months of fine living would do for her figure (allied to an already respectable bosom), enjoy that passionate temper, and delight in peeling away that modesty…

 _Faith, was it all taste and no sentiment?_ A girl was not a bottle of wine. How drab and old-fashioned the room seemed! His favourite paintings were dark and distant. Where was the sea? He suddenly felt unspeakably jaded; his sensibilities so stained and worn that he felt he might weep.

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn was alone with him. The regent’s page had discreetly departed while they were kissing. His servants were probably waiting in the next room, gossiping about her and their master. Again, the idea came to her of putting a stop to all of it and ending his life. There was the bottlescrew, the carving knife, the jewelled scabbard of a (likely blunt) ceremonial sword on the wall, and the strength of her hands (almost certainly capable of overpowering the gouty, debilitated prince).

 _Prinny._ The wine was the pale gold of clover honey. Setting down her glass — still two-thirds full — she walked behind his chair and cut herself a piece of strong cheese. It would be too much to climb back into his embrace, so Gwendolyn perched on the soft armrest of his invalid chair, unable to bring herself to return to her own seat. Something hung between them like a tightening noose. The cheese crumbled between her fingers and spoiled the scent of his orange blossom perfume.

The regent closed his eyes, his empty glass lop-sided in his lap, and leaned his head against Gwendolyn’s side. She wiped her hands on her pelisse and then wrapped an arm across his shoulders. Were her republican ideals truly so feeble that she could be affected by the glitter of royalty? His manner was charming, she had to concede, but he was very far from what anyone would consider attractive. All that roly-poly under her fingers — how it had jiggled when he laughed!

His shoulders shook as he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his green banyan. “What is it?” she asked, perplexed.

“Only my indisposition,” his deep voice was muffled by the lace and her pelisse. Lightning paled the room, flickering gold to silver.

It was what he deserved. Everyone knew that gout was the malady of kings, the Lord’s punishment for wealthy gluttons. Who had ever known a poor man to suffer from it? But then, didn’t the Lord anoint kings and punish murderers, and who was to say there was any truth to any of it? The sound of thunder, far away, made her jump even though she had been waiting for its boom.

Gwendolyn patted his arm. The prince’s sleeve was the colour of a yaffle bird’s back and so delicately embroidered with silver thread. Every stitch caught a movement: the unfolding of wings and curling of talons, long beaks opening, calling to one another as they took flight from some oriental lake scattered with lotus flowers. How long must it take to make something so fine with only the dip of one needle? Or perhaps it was the work of ten jobbing seamstresses; each assigned their own piece, all squinting down at their work and giggling that the Prince of Wales’ elegant banyan should require so many yards of silk.

“Shall I leave…?” she asked, fingering the material, reluctant to go back to her empty, borrowed chamber. The fire would not be lit and this room was so cosy. There was the bet, of course, she _must_ win the bet.

“No!” he tilted his head upwards to look at her, for once lifting his double chin out of its nest of a cravat. “You… you have not kissed a gentleman before.” It was not a question.

“No,” Gwendolyn admitted.

It was the prince who looked embarrassed by her admission. But his hands found her waist and pulled her tenderly back into his lap, leaving her knees in the air and her legs dangling off the side of the chair. She ought to feel flustered, her heart yammering in her chest, but there was only the warmth of his body and the smoothness of his fubsy cheek beside her own. “The noble art of osculation,” he murmured against her ear, “is a piquant combination of enthusiasm, instinct, and skill, but there are a few particulars to which every novice ought to adhere…”

Gwendolyn was about to ask what osculation meant, but the prince shook his head and held up a hand for silence. “No, do not ask, ’twill be far easier to show you… now I… ah!” He leaned over and dipped two plump fingers into the frosting of the left-over cake, drawing slowly across its surface like the wheel of a cart through pristine snow. Then he began to paint her lips in careful, horizontal smears. Tingling lemon sugar, she opened her mouth to lick it away, when his mouth found hers.

The regent made a low noise in the back of his throat and the world seemed to contract to the circumference of his lips, which eased forwards and backwards, drawing away creamy lemon with each retreat. Gwendolyn, attempting to swipe a faltering daub of frosting, stuck her tongue out. He gently caught its tip between his teeth, before curling his tongue leisurely against hers. She heard herself give a strange sort of squeak and he hummed into her mouth. There were a few jarring movements, but the kisses possessed their own rhythm: give and take, push and pull, they continued to answer one another, drawn into an irresistible duet. 

When they finally ceased, Gwendolyn was out of breath and caught in a trembling ache. She opened her eyes and the prince’s face, so close to her own, shocked her. She noticed, for the first time, that the tip of his nose was slightly upturned. He was licking his fingers clean with a satisfied nonchalance that was almost endearing. _It would be the same with any man in such a situation,_ she cautioned herself. _And, obviously, he has had a lot of practise._

She didn’t feel equal to putting words to the moment. Closing her eyes, she let her head rest against his neck and her hands wrap around his soft middle. The rain seemed far from their idyll of wine, lemon, and orange blossom. Her lips felt swollen and the room was uncomfortably warm.

“Tell me — ah, you visited your cousins this morning, did you not?”

The Prince Regent’s question jolted her back to the dead baker’s apprentice, the fallen thief, and Thomas… “Yes… I…” she stumbled over the words, sitting up and taking a panicked gulp of sweet wine. She had _meant_ to ask him to help Anne!

“How’d they like your new togs?” he traced an approving finger over the frogging on her chest, all polished lassitude.

“Well, I… well, you see…” How could Gwendolyn despise him for his isolation and, despite this, wish to keep him in his own sphere, ignorant of her experiences? She found it difficult to stitch together the two realms and envied how tidy his mind must be. A wager was tidy, even if its terms were unclear. She would be neatly laid out inside his head like a new coat, or listed under sundry pleasures, such as going for a ride or attending the theatre.

The prince’s eyes were blue again, his mild features expectant as he toyed with the tassels at her breast. If only he could be so clear in her own thoughts! There was no container in which she could place him. Royal lover? They were not lovers. Rogue? He had been kind. Friend? No. Nor was she his servant or his mistress. She could not afford to be drawn into his golden orbit; she must remember what she was.

He was staring at her. Gwendolyn drew in air, trying to collect her thoughts. “While I was there, one of their bakeries — next to their home — it was ransacked. Two men were killed.”

The Prince Regent blinked, jaw agape, and his hand dropped. “Miss Hunt!” The cambric handkerchief fluttered about his mouth. “How could you not _tell_ me?”

“I… did not want to think of it. I thought you might… help me forget.” The truth of her words turned Gwendolyn’s stomach. Lord, she had all but _raced_ into the arms of this sybarite — a man she hardly knew but for one night of bizarre intemperance — and he had not disappointed her! She allowed herself another swallow of Constantia and found it cloying.

“But this is terrible!” the prince seemed genuinely distressed. “Your poor cousin — Anne, was it?”

“Yes, Your — yes.” Gwendolyn was surprised he remembered.

“To think of you and your family caught up in such violence!” The prince took the bottle from the table and poured himself another libation. “I ought _never_ to have wished them ill for treating you so cruelly…”

“It’s all right…” Why was she comforting _him?_

“I hardly recognise London these days… riots every other week… such surly expressions one sees! But you say that it was only _one_ of their premises that was looted?”

“It is not an uncommon occurrence,” Gwendolyn replied. “With the price of flour so high, the bakers must raise their prices, and there are so many now without the means to buy bread…” Her voice sounded odd to her ears, intruding on the province of pamphlets and men’s speeches. But it was her _own_ voice, and she was talking to the _Prince Regent_ , which no one in the Society had ever dreamed of doing! “I know I should feel more for Anne, but it’s the thieves I pity… what has a life come to when _stealing_ becomes a necessity…?”

The prince lowered his gaze, “One can only imagine… death is meted out for the most trifling of reasons. I seem to be forever commuting sentences. Does a woman deserve to die for the theft of one cow, or a man for using a forged note? Of course, one sees only the cases of those deemed fit objects of royal mercy… I cannot conceive of how many must fall short of that qualification by some small degree.” The prince shook his head. “Yet, perhaps death in England might be preferable to years of servitude in New South Wales? I do hope not.” He finished his second glass and availed himself of the last of the bottle. “I quite understand your sentiments, Gwen, but what is one to do?”

“Anything!” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “Everything!”  

“That’s all very well to say,” he snapped. “All very well indeed until you are in my position! I suppose you are in favour of the reform of parliament, universal suffrage, and so forth — all of what one reads in the radical papers these days — but what, I ask you, has any of that to do with me?”

“I…”

He did not wait for her to finish. “Nothing — not a fig! Oh, perhaps one will be asked to sign a great deal of papers, have one’s opinions ignored, and be _told_ but never asked, except on questions of preferment — and even then gainsaid — because of one’s inexperience and, indeed, _one is not yet king_.” The prince took a large swallow of Constantia and sighed. “I was forty-eight when they passed the Regency Act. You likely cannot imagine being forty-eight, almost half a century, but imagine — if you will — all those years filled with nothing! No duty, no command, nor any occupation whatsoever — and then to be _blamed_ for devoting myself to my own pleasure, as though I were in a position to do anything else!” He was breathing heavily and his grey eyes watered.

“Prinny…” The famous nickname was unfamiliar here, in the narrow space between them, no longer a thing of scandal sheets and print shop windows, but a token of intimacy. _Did he truly have so little power?_

Then, in a waft of lace, the tears were gone: “La, such a rant, how dull of me… but your family are unhurt? Are they in need of any assistance?” He brushed her arm in gentle reproof, “You must not deprive me of any opportunity for gallantry, you know.”   

In her mind, she had rehearsed asking him for help on Anne’s behalf (explaining that she had a young daughter and that her husband was a good man who had learned his trade in Marseilles), but it seemed that no explanation was required. “That is… very generous.”

“Ah,” the prince treated her to a magnanimous smile. “I assure you, I am nothing if not generous.”

 _Very generous_ , Gwendolyn thought. If she had not been warned against making any comments about the regent’s weight, she might have said it out loud. She resisted the urge to tickle him again. He must have been wearing a corset before to support such a figure.

“Gwen?”

Had he caught her stare? Gwendolyn forced out a smile and clambered awkwardly off his lap. Moving around the table, she picked up her little plate, covering its pink and gold flowers with cold meats, deliberately avoiding the macarons and the despoiled cake. The image of the veteran, snatching bread from a dead man, came into her head. She choked, the chicken dry in her throat, and dropped the plate of food.

The carpet was too thick to shatter the porcelain. The plate bounced and landed upside-down under the table, leaving bits of pork and chicken strewn across the floor. Gwendolyn stood petrified, staring down at the mess, unable to look at the prince.  

There was the creak of wheels. How long would it take to make a man eat of the floor like a dog? What would happen to the food she had just wasted? Another squeak, a mechanical click, and still she could not raise her head. The rain had stopped.

“Gwendolyn,” the regent’s deep voice was soothing in the half-lit gloam. How had it grown so very dark without her noticing? _“Gwendolyn.”_  

She glanced up. The chair was alongside her. His round face was illuminated by the fire; old and reassuring, the face of an indulgent uncle or a kindly magistrate. Lord, why _would_ he be angry? Indolence had left him the softest creature alive and privilege allowed him to offer her every fine thing without the slightest effort. What did he care for three wasted pieces of chicken and a bit of pork?

He was an abomination. He was everything she despised. Gwendolyn couldn’t be — she could not let him _smile_ at her any longer. “I — I have to go, I — forgive me!”

And she ran.

 

~*~

 

He always dreamed of palaces. Grand staircases unfolding like ladies’ fans, gilt dragons that breathed light, and trochiform columns whorled upwards to brush a pink sky — or was it a mirror? The floor was clotted with nodding bluebells, sheltering beneath glittering waterfalls of glass as they might beneath a line of oaks; they were violet under the chandeliers and everything from deep blue to dog-whelk purple in the shadows and alcoves.

He bent down to examine the flowers, his slippers sinking into the soft, spring earth. They did not smell like bluebells. Bees flitted amongst the crush, crawling beneath narrow petal gowns. The small bodies of rabbits rustled through the ballroom. A red bee was caught at the hem of a flower, its mouthparts a slithery pink.

He continued to drift. A scaled, three-eyed hare nibbled in the shade of a sculpted, porcelain pagoda. Three drops of blood opening and closing in one slow blink. On the walls the paintings shifted in their frames or, no… the guests were in the walls. That wasn’t right either. There were no windows, only painted rectangles of gilt that yawned into monstrous vistas. A chittering mucilage of scabrous gastropods; lascivious, jewel-eyed reptiles, their curved claws delicately touching as they waltzed; maiden-fleshed butterflies with flushed antennae, their blind mouth-faces thick with spindle-teeth…

A tendril flicked up his nape, the hare bolted, and George turned.

It was there, staring down at him. Light flickered around it like the edges of an eclipse. It tilted its bulk to the side — no small affair — and made a low, inviting noise. Its plum-coloured jacket had eight sleeves and its eyes burned like the intersections of stars. The bluebells whispered and George took a step back.

It gurgled and flicked out a lash, winding him into its folds. Tendrils hooked into the back of his knees and he cried out, struggling. _“No-no-no…”_ it told him, but he could hardly hear it for screaming. Grabbing fistfuls of the thing’s flab, he closed his eyes, shuddering in agony. It felt as though the creature had broken his legs. Tears leaked down his face, his joints flared like hot coals, and he could smell the awful reek of his own flesh cooking.

A blade slid through his skin. It was going to eat him. Oh God. Maybe he wouldn’t mind as long as it was quick about it and then the pain would stop, it… it…

George opened one eye. A deep, vertical incision had been made down each of his naked legs, from the tops of his wobbly white thighs to down between his toes. There was no blood. Verdant little sprigs were curling out of each long gash. He opened his other eye. The pain lessoned with each unfurling flower, each slithering vine. The buds were the same veined blue-pink as his skin. Shallow, shuddering sighs escaped his lips as — inch by inch — his lower half bloomed.

A crimson bee settled on his left foot, crawling into one of his flesh-flowers, and another zizzed in an interested fashion above his right knee. _“Good?”_ the creature asked, laying him down gently amongst the bluebells.

George nodded mutely, too shocked to speak, and it smiled — revealing four sets of yellow snags. Several plumed, hatchet-faced things brought forward glistening platters laden with food. Bowing and cheeping, the implets offered their trays to him.

Jellies dark with wine, glazed rodents, roast birds dressed in exotic feathers, fruit so ripe you could taste the pulp on the air. The creature gave him a nudge. Its servants jabbered insistently, jostling one another. He hesitated, staring at the medieval fare. Several other bees had been drawn to his legs, and he peered over his stomach at them, watching the little things bumble and zip.

Reaching down, George plucked one of the flowers. It hurt a little, like pricking a pimple. The thing stank of rancid, febrile nights: bile, leeches, laudanum, and cherry brandy. He flinched at the smell, dropping the flower, and realised that he was still crying. The skin poppies continued to open, reeking of memory, lapped by eager bees.

The creature purred, rolling a limb down his wet cheek. It whipped forward and scooped up a quantity of plump, roasted rat-things, dripping with honey. One mouth swallowed delightedly while the other licked at the shell of George’s ear. It laughed like a flock of parakeets and offered George the same fare. _I suppose the Romans ate dormice_ , he thought, distractedly taking one from its insistent appendage. The glazed skin and tender meat opened into mince mixed with nuts and strange, aromatic herbs and he felt so —

The curtain pulled back. The rain had returned — had it ever left? George planted his face firmly in his pillow, unwilling to face the world beyond his bed. He felt so warm and heavy, cosied beneath the silk counterpane. “What time is it?” he asked reluctantly.

“It is ten minutes past eleven, Your Royal Highness.” It was Kerrick’s voice.

“Eh? Eleven what?”

“My apologies, sir.” He could hear the smile in the lad’s voice, damn him. “Eleven o’clock in the _morning_.”

“What are you about,” George played up to his page, “disturbing me at ten minutes past so ghastly an hour?” He rubbed his eyes, blinking up at the satin canopy.

“Your Royal Highness made a noon appointment with one of your tailors, specifically Mr Meyer.”

“Can’t _imagine_ what I was thinking,” George grumbled theatrically as he pushed back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. His page’s eyes went wide and his valet, who had just entered the room, stared at him as though George had just declared himself ruler of the moon. “What?”

“Are you not in pain — your legs, sir…?”

He looked down at his swaddled limbs and imagined them split and curled about with flowers. “No,” he grinned, “I feel…” _Wonderful._ He bounced a little on the mattress. “I feel _quite_ recovered, as a matter of fact — whoever said beans and cold tea were the answer to anything? Help me get these damned things off and then fetch me some champagne!”

Once freed from his wraps, George went to the window and opened the latch, breathing in a lungful of new air as his valet draped a robe over his shoulders. The sky was an eternal white, like paper awaiting a pen, and the rain was as fine the fizz of champagne in his hand. He felt, today, as though anything might be possible. The trees hardly moved but, beyond them, London was its usual self, all a bustle. _Today,_ he thought, _I will go out._

Breakfast was a brief affair (another glass of champagne, Welsh rarebit, a little ham, half a smoked fish pie, and a custard tart exquisitely topped with Maraschino and peach jelly). He was served in his chambers, kicking off his slippers and rubbing his feet together as he ate, delighted by the soft friction of his toes.

While dressing, he could not take his eyes off the mirror, unable to shake the superstition that it must have fulfilled his wish. None of his servants appeared to notice the eerie magnolia light in the glass or the way its cherubs flickered strange, their faces almost —no, it was a mere fancy. Still… “Someone get Mr Jutsham to look into the provenance of this thing.” He tapped the frame without shifting his gaze, and his reflection smirked back at him with haughty self-regard. His valet was perfecting George’s neckerchief, carefully settling a length of linen around the starched white stock. It was his second attempt this morning (the first lay ignominiously crumpled on the chaise), but George would never consider rushing the man.

And, as he stood, his chin lifted upwards, George thought — for the first time that morning — of Gwendolyn Hunt. An attack of nerves, poor dear, that was all. Last night… oh, it had all been very awkward. He could not imagine what he had been thinking, taking up with a girl like that. No. Best to put an end to it before their frisson soiled her reputation. Yes — for Gwen’s own good. A wager was all very well, but he had no wish to cause the sweet girl such distress. And she had no idea where to put either her mouth or her hands. No grace whatsoever!

Come to think of it, he didn’t think he’d ever had a tryst with a maiden before. He had been with several who had _claimed_ to be chaste, including his supposedly virgin bride — George downed the rest of his third glass of champagne at the memory — but a lady with no experience… and so very thin… no, it simply wasn’t his style. _Nice young gel, this one, not your usual trollop, wot. Wants a decent fellow to marry her, give her some children! Not a fat blackguard such as yourself, sir!_

He smoothed his fingers over the reassuring curve of his stays. He ought never to have received Miss Hunt yesterday evening. Too much laudanum — that was the trouble. Well, he felt no need for the drug now. Perhaps he would go for a drive this afternoon with Isabella? They might talk and she would let him kiss her, press his face against the warm sweetness of her bosom, and — and…

Ladies did _not_ walk out on the Prince of Wales! The last person who had done that was Maria and that — that was a different matter. They had quarrelled. He could not think of anything he said that might have caused Miss Hunt to take such a turn. In fact, he had been in the act of intimating what benefits their liaison might grant. Did she think him crass? Oh, that _must_ be it, yes — young women wanted love to be pure, did they not? They wanted poetry, flowers, and political reforms — not jewels, annuities, and positions for their sons. _Cheaper too, wot?_

Last night he’d had too many thoughts. It pained him to think of them now, so much chaff, made worse by the introspection only a night of agony could bring. But this new morning, as fresh as daffodils, did not deserve to be burdened by an aging man’s fears. His valet stepped away and George smiled, admiring the artfulness of the knot. “You have not lost your touch,” he lightly fingered the linen, careful not to injure its perfect shape.

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

Nothing could be faulted. Not the style of his wig, not the cut of his black coat, not the delicate beauty of his waistcoat, not the cream simplicity of his trousers, and certainly not the polished elegance of his shoes. For this immaculate canvas, his blue ribbon and the silver of his orders were the perfect ornaments. So splendidly caparisoned, George felt equal to anything. There would be no business today, he decided, only pleasure.

He strode out of his chambers with a spring in his step, his face warm with champagne, and resisted the urge to laugh with sheer good humour.

“Meyer!” George spread his arms wide in welcome as he entered the Blue Velvet Room. The tailor stepped forward with a deep bow. Behind him were his apprentice and two overawed young assistants carrying stacks of boxes. They all looked rather damp.

“An honour as always, Your Royal Highness,” the reserved Austrian tailor made to kiss his hand, but George waved him away and patted the man on the shoulder instead.

“So _good_ of you to come,” George enthused, before turning to the tailor’s apprentice, “and how are you Mr Lyttle?”

“Very well, Your Royal Highness.”

“Capital — and you, young fellows!” he treated the nervous assistants to his most beneficent smile. “Never seen you before in my life and yet look what you’ve brought me! Yes, set them down there — on the table — oh, splendid!” Meyer liked to bring his raw cadets along to fetch and carry and be impressed by the station of his royal patron. “And what are your names?”

“Andrews, Your Royal Highness.”

“Uh — Barry, Your Royal Highness, sir.”

“Mr Meyer is a master of his craft, you are very lucky to be in his employ... Now, I have several things that require a little letting out…” _Faith, more than a few things, and no small amount of alterations necessary!_ It hurt to look at the garment boxes Martin was setting down on a chair. “But I want five waistcoats in these silk satin brocades — and several new sets of pantaloons in kerseymere…”

He ran his fingers over the folded lengths of fabric set out on the table. Lyons silk, trellised with blue roses; pink satin damask; lampas the sun-baked shades of an Italian orchard; the finest dove grey Kersey wool…    

“Of course, sir.” Meyer replied gravely. “Would you like to see the jacket that Your Royal Highness requested we embellish?”

George’s smile returned, “La! Yes, yes — _of course_ — you didn’t forget the lacework, did you? I sent you my drawing…”

“Everything was done exactly as Your Royal Highness requested, I assure you…”

And it had been. The collar had been heightened and bordered with the prettiest Brussels lace. George seized the coat, inspecting every detail. The cherry red fabric, cut in the Polish style, now boasted three tiers of tassels draped beneath the epaulettes… and _oh_ was that ribbon embroidery at the cuffs and button holes? Tiny gold ribbons stitched into such lovely, delicate filigree… the buttons had been changed, of course, and the whole interior of the garment had been lined with the softest fox fur and blue silk...  

“I must try it on!” he exclaimed, shrugging off his black coat. One of his pages moved over to snatch the discarded garment before it fell to the floor. George pulled on the red jacket, delighting in its finery, gazing at himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. As always, there was that quiet flutter of disappointment in the pit of his stomach, that he did not look _quite_ how he had pictured himself in it, the sickening notion that while it suited him, it would look so much _better_ on someone thinner, someone younger, and more handsome.      

George swallowed. He was very careful, as always, not to let such thoughts spoil his affable mien. It was _his_ jacket, he had designed it, and it was exquisite, the perfect thing for a winter’s ride. He loved the carefully knotted tassels, the majesty of the colour, and the artistry of the lace at his neck — every detail was exactly as he had specified. “It is magnificent,” he declared, buttoning it over his waistcoat, and —

Oh. George gave the fabric a little tug. _Oh please, no…_ The button was just shy of its hole. _No, no…_ His cheeks grew hot. He had only been measured for this last month! It _couldn’t_ be too small. It just — he tugged at it again, desperately willing it to close. Everyone must be looking at him. He ought to laugh, give his waistcoat a self-deprecating pat, and set them all at ease. It wasn’t so very much to ask. He did it all the time. _Don’t cry, boy! Can’t stand tears — are you a girl, sir? — conduct yourself as the future King of England, wot!_

“Oh, Your Royal Highness, forgive me — I… must have made some mistake with the measurements!” Meyer was beside him, blinking owlishly. It was a lie, of course. A tailor of his quality would _never_ make such an error. “I humbly beg your pardon, it shall _not_ happen again…”

Yet everyone made mistakes, now and then, surely? It _must_ be the tailor’s fault. “Fix it,” George snapped coldly, flinging the jacket aside. “I expect _better_ of you, Meyer.”

“Of course, I humbly request the indulgence of Your Royal Highness… I believe these old eyes might have written down the wrong measurements when transcribing them… it is shameful, I know, but I shan’t blame one of the young ones for my vanity. Did you not say to me just the other day, Mr Lyttle, that I ought to wear spectacles?”

The apprentice nodded. His face was blank as a footman’s. “I did indeed, sir.” The two assistants goggled. They would likely tell this story to anyone who cared to listen.

George watched the pantomime with increasing despair, but was utterly unable to call it to a halt. Watching another man beggar his pride to save his own was excruciating; how shallow they must think him and how foolish. He wanted to speak but his jaw was locked. Faith, he could see the caricature now: the tailor grovelling and apologetic and himself, twice his actual size, lambasting the man for such carelessness as he vainly attempted to button the jacket, perhaps with a politician thrown in, and John Bull grumbling in the corner. _The R_g__t’s Lament or the Squeeze on the Public Purse._ Damn them, he’d seen so many, he could write them himself!

“…And so, Your Royal Highness,” Meyer continued, “I shall give to Mr Lyttle the very great honour — which hitherto I have permitted no one but my own self to undertake — of taking Your Royal Highness’ measurements.”

George shook his head, mortified by this departure. “Oh, Meyer, no…”

“I fail to see any other recourse, sir.” The tailor held himself stiffly, giving George a small bow.

He had to end this ridiculous farce. A better man would not have stood for it in the first place. Was he to be the king from _So ist der Lauf der Welt_ , whose courtiers claimed they could see his invisible clothes? What did it matter if a man’s new jacket did not button, provided he was a gentleman?

George laughed. He put great effort into it: a deep, embarrassed chuckle. Meyer looked up and the eyes of his coterie widened in surprise. “My dear fellow, ‘tis very thoughtful of you to consider spectacles on my account — I have a pair myself, you know — but, look here, whether the thing be faulted on your eyesight or my indulgence,” he gave a rueful smile, “I _cannot_ have, forgive me Mr Lyttle, a mere apprentice taking on so important a task.”

Lyttle smiled and glanced toward his master. Meyer gave George a polite but uncertain look; wary, perhaps, of being caught out by yet another change in the royal demeanour. George simply beckoned the tailor forward.

Meyer took a roll of measuring paper from his pocket and he forced himself to meet the tailor’s eye as the man stepped forward to wrap the paper oh-so-carefully around his middle, making a little mark at the close of its circumference, before moving on to his chest, his shoulders, his arms, and so forth. The paper fluttered about him like a sparrow, darting quickly hither and yon.

He had always been inclined to be fat but now, as regent, he had traded much of his physical freedom for royal authority. Oh, his doctors prated about exercise, but he could hardly bear to ride after the _The Times_ had chronicled the assistance he required to mount a horse with his gouty legs, and walking was so very tiresome. They gave his difficulties a symbolism he despised, made him out to be a selfish, puerile fool. How close he had come, just now, to aping those depictions!

“It is done, Your Royal Highness.” Meyer made another bow.

George essayed a gracious smile. “Be sure to transcribe things _properly_ this time,” he treated the tailor to a good-humoured wink, but the action exhausted him. “I am certain that you gentlemen can sort this,” he waved in the vague direction of the fabrics and piles of boxes, “out without me — one does have other engagements… _such_ a pleasure as always, of course, and there is a little repast laid out for you when you have finished… Martin there will show you. Now, where — where is my coat?”

“Here, sir.” Kerrick held out the black coat, helping him put it back on. Yes, much more dignified, more suited to a man of his stature. Black was so slimming, so very elegant. It was made by Weston, of course, every detail was perfect. A little ruching at the shoulders, the cut immaculate, no one could fault it.

George stepped out of the room, the doors closing behind him, and dissolved into a relieved exhale. He wanted to run away, lock the doors to his bedroom, and never emerge. How _tired_ he was of affecting not to notice as eyes dipped to his waist and well-bred mouths curled into politely leashed smiles. Perversely, the thought made him hungry even as it made him sick.

Kerrick was giving him a look so singularly knowing that it bordered on impertinence. He met the stare, causing the page to flinch and lower his gaze as George sank into the mint silk cushions of a sofa. “You have something to add, Tom?”

“No, Your Royal Highness.”

“I would care to know your mind,” he replied, piqued.

“It… seems a shame that Your Royal Highness should allow the pleasure of your recovery to be spoiled.”

“Ah, quite so…” George said weakly, closing his eyes. Where was the buoyant humour of but a moment ago? _You are behaving like a child,_ George told himself. He rested his palms on his knees, thinking of flesh-coloured poppies and a ballroom filled with bluebells. “Where did we lodge Miss Hunt?”

Kerrick’s voice was cautious: “In the Green Chinese Room, sir.”

“Go — ah, get me a brandy — then go into the garden and cut some flowers… or have some delivered… finest you can find. You have,” he opened his eyes and glanced at his fob watch, “twenty minutes.” _Flowers, yes… flowers were the thing for a flighty young lady like that._

“Yes, sir!”

They would luncheon together and air whatever misunderstanding the dear creature was labouring under. And George could watch her wrap her sweet mouth around one of Carême’s mushroom vol-au-vents, the light pastry crumbling on her lower lip, the sauce creamy on her tongue… and observe her sentiments wrestle with one another. And, perhaps, prove to one person that he… that he could still seduce a beautiful, strong-willed creature who had only contempt for his rank.

George adjusted his weight on the sofa, smoothing his waistcoat self-consciously, before accepting the glass of cherry brandy. He himself would eat little. It would not do to embarrass himself a second time. His doctors had advised him to limit his diet, after all. If a pup like Byron could do it, well, it couldn’t be that difficult, surely…?

 

 


	6. Conserve de Chocolat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a basis for comparison concerning money, remember that Mr Darcy has a very attractive annual income of £10,000 a year, which (apparently) equates to about £12 million these days (according to an article in the Daily Telegraph from 2013 rejecting a literal conversion of £796,000 and adjusting for cheaper labour and different living standards, etc.). 
> 
> The letter in this chapter was indeed sent to the Prince Regent in 1816 by his ministers. The pamphlet is also genuine, though whether its figures were correct is another matter. Conserve of chocolate was an early form of chocolate fudge. Also, in this period, it was common to use the word “condescend” in a very positive sense to mean “affability with one’s inferiors”. So if I write that someone “did not condescend an inch” I mean that the person is being… uh… extremely condescending.

 

_Releas'd from all the toils of State,_

_From care and sorrow free,_

_The humorous Wag of pond'rous weight,_

_Gives way to mirth and glee._

_“No virtuous women visit me—_

_They dread to lose their name—_

_I'll condescend—with those make free_

_Who never blush'd with shame.”_

 

~ ‘The Humours of the Great Baby at Brighton’

 

 

“—From His Royal Highness.”

Orchids. Gwendolyn stared. Cut orchids. Could anything be more gorgeous or more wasteful? Pink symmetry fading into yellow, curling purple, and speckled like butterflies’ wings. Where were they from? The Indies, China, South America? Some explorer had brought their far-flung jungle seeds to England, a loving atmosphere of glass had brought them to flower, and the Prince Regent — that surfeit of extravagance! — had ordered them cut for his latest doxy.

They smelt like an oriental grove and Gwendolyn smiled because no other flower could have done her suiter justice. _Is that what you’re calling him now?_ Her toes clenched against the carpet. The page was offering her the bouquet. She resisted reaching for it, holding tight to the half-open door.

The night had left her shattered; listening to the rain splutter like a lamp overfull with oil, she had sat up writing a letter to Anne, while her mind foundered on the jagged edges of her fears. She reached up and rubbed her eyes. The page was still there, looking at her curiously. The orchids were tied with a yellow ribbon. “Miss Hunt?”

He looked about her age, perhaps a little younger. The the sort of man who was _supposed_ to be courting her. He was handsome too, with freckles across his nose, red hair, and a ready smile. She let go of the door and took the orchids, putting her nose to the blooms. It seemed rude to do anything else. “They’ll need a vase,” she said faintly, “and water… did he send a note?” 

“No, miss — he did, however, invite you to luncheon with him.” The page smiled, “I am still trying to divine what the maids did with your boots… but here are some slippers?” He held them up by the heels. They were made of peach satin with pointed toes and little silver bows. Gwendolyn looked at them dubiously over her bouquet. They appeared rather small. The page read her expression. “They may not be an exact fit, but I’ll have something else arranged by the time you and His Royal Highness finish luncheon.”

She felt her face flush, “I… I may not accept his invitation!” 

He just looked at her politely. “Then what shall I tell His Royal Highness?”

Gwendolyn continued to stand awkwardly in the doorway, trying to settle on a response. She remembered rattling the knob as she tried to get out of the prince’s private rooms, forgetting that she had locked the door herself, thinking — for one hysterical second — that he had trapped her in the room with him. It was all too much: the bet, this place, the food, and the Prince Regent — so painfully real, so ludicrously himself. Flowers and satin slippers. _Luncheon._

But what was she going to do? Sit here alone with her thoughts and the ridiculous orchids? There was no surer way to forfeit the bet. A night of turmoil had brought her no closer to resolving her feelings, but she knew that the bet must come first. The regent had shackled her to his purpose by offering a prize so vast, so grand, that it could not be cast aside. “I… thank him for his invitation. I will be there.” She grabbed the slippers and handed back the flowers, along with an envelope. “Can you have this letter sent to my cousin? And find these a vase that doesn’t cost hundreds of pounds?”

He made a grave face, “That might be difficult, Miss Hunt.”

Gwendolyn smiled. “Do your best… is it Kerry?” He had watched her sit on his master’s lap, watched her and the prince… feed each other. And it was he who had first persuaded her to stay here at the regent’s pleasure. _What did he think of what had passed between them?_ Gwendolyn was not brave enough to ask.

The page bowed. “Tom Kerrick, miss, your humble servant.” His mouth tightened and his hazel eyes gave an uneasy flicker. “I… I know it is not what the gossips would have you believe but… His Royal Highness _is_ a gentleman.”

The page had very peculiar notions of gentlemanly behaviour, but Gwendolyn supposed that princes were held to lower standards of propriety. “I… thank you?”  

 _What am I going to say when the regent asks me why I left?_ Gwendolyn hated the idea of playing upon some notion of feminine nerves, yet what other explanation could she offer? Her room had been neither dark nor cold when she had returned to it last night. The fire had been lit and she found a silver bed warmer slid between her sheets. Everything had been done with such care, yet she missed home with an ache she had never known. Not the town parishes where she had lived with her brother, but her father’s house in Staffordshire that had still held traces of her mother's presence. The old stone walls, the familiar curve of field, and the willow tree too close to her bedroom window.

After Kerrick left, she tried on the slippers. They were only a little tight. Gwendolyn glared down at their delicate silver bows. The idea of sharing yet another meal with the man made her fretful. Breakfast, luncheon, nuncheon, dinner, supper… where did it end? The prince seemed to be continually stuffing himself with food and drink. As though anyone could become endeared to such an old squab! She dreaded meeting him again.  

Gwendolyn had been in the dining room before, had even shared a meal here with the prince, but her brief familiarity with the room — gathered on that first bewildering day in Carlton House — had all the lurid disorder of a dream. She barely remembered the furnishings or the service; all her thoughts had been taken up by the Prince Regent and the restless crowd in the Mall.

This time every detail was edged like a knife: the glasses and the unlit gasoliers were of shimmering crystal; the long table was covered by a white cloth and set with elegant vases in porcelain and gold, each topped by a froth of pink and white roses; golden candlesticks, boasting long beeswax candles, lined every surface like soldiers taking up defensive positions; the drapes were red, fringed and wound with tassels, and beneath these hung a second set of curtains in near transparent lace, fluttering like the windows’ petticoats; the ornate furnishings were red and giltwood to match; the walls were lined with crests boasting unfathomable heraldry and mirrors that reflected gold against gold; everywhere gilt panelling flowered in gothic splendour like the first letter of a fairy-tale; Corinthian columns (gold-painted) plumed upwards to the height of the ceiling and the doors and windows were set into medieval arches that gave the dining room the appearance of a golden miniature cathedral dedicated, not to the Lord, but to the Prince of Wales and his appetite.

The regent himself (astonishingly mobile for a man who only yesterday had been crippled by gout), was standing to greet her with a graceful bow. As Gwendolyn made her courtsey, she noted that the royal feet seemed, if anything, rather small for a man of his proportions. There was nothing in his manner that indicated any sort of irritation over her abrupt exit last night, but his complexion was very florid above his brace of white neckerchiefs and Gwendolyn suspected that he had been drinking steadily all morning. Yet the prince’s low, musical voice, as he wished her good morning, did not slur one whit.

Last night’s kisses, Gwendolyn was mortified to discover, seemed to have tied a knot in her intestine that connected to the prince’s lips. This rope, instead of behaving in the regular way, slackened with distance and tightened with intimacy. It pulled painfully taut as the Prince Regent took her by the arm, enveloping her in orange blossom, and shepherded her to her seat, settling her there in a gallant manner before ensconcing himself in his wide armchair at the head of the table.

The regent was dressed in a handsome black coat. His waistcoat was embroidered with gold thread. A beribboned fob rested against his large stomach, drawing attention to the curve of his high-cut trousers. He was wearing his stays. They — now that Gwendolyn had a point of comparison — laced a waist into his blubber and gave the rest of his figure a smooth rotundity. Such corsetry would also serve (and she was horrified by this unbidden thought) protect that tightly-buttoned, silk-covered expanse from being tickled.

There were attendants standing at attention and moving in and out through a small doorway at the other end of the room. They had faces like masks: blank and terrifying with silent thoughts. What must they think of her? It was embarrassing to be the object of the prince’s attentions in front of so many people. She recognised the page at the prince’s elbow as the one she’d tricked last night. He glared at her from behind his master’s shoulder.

Gwendolyn tried to smile. What ought she to say? The slippers were pinching her toes. His recovery really was remarkable. “You look… well this morning, Your Highness. I’m… not well acquainted with gentlemen’s fashions, but it is all quite fine.” The memory of being seated on his lap, his mouth against hers, rose uncomfortably in her mind.

“Tush!” He preened a little, obviously pleased with the compliment. “My dear, the honours must go to you in that blue gown — very fetching.” His eyes had lost yesterday’s glaze and his appreciative smile made Gwendolyn feel less awkward in the grand dress she was wearing. The modiste had told her that the profusion of silvery lace over blue velvet was to imitate the “effervescence of the sea”. It looked ridiculous, but it was one of the few long-sleeved dresses she had been given.  

“Now I must offer my apologies for the improprieties of yesterday evening,” the prince said earnestly. “My behaviour, between ourselves — an unhappy consequence of the amelioration I am obliged to seek for such ailments as visit me on occasion — was, perhaps, too forward.” His expression was probably meant to be boyishly endearing. On the fifty-two year-old Prince Regent, whose cheeks were rosy with liquor, the effect was more comical than persuasive. He reached across and invited her to take his hand. “In these circumstances, I quite understand your flight, and — I do hope — you can forgive me?”

Gwendolyn bit her lip and then, after a moment, laid her hand atop the fleshy fingers resting on the white tablecloth. “Of course, I…” Looking at his big, silly face she realised, quite suddenly, that he was kindly offering her a way out. If his conduct was at fault, then she had no need to explain her own behaviour. _Am I truly such a coward?_ His hand was soft and very warm. Gwendolyn could feel his pulse. _I kissed him._ And she wanted to do it again. “No, it is you who are owed an apology… Prinny.”

He blinked and Gwendolyn wondered if she had made a mistake, if the nickname had been just for last night, but then he nodded graciously for her to continue, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. Without pulling away or taking his eyes off her, he made a gesture to the footmen, who began setting out the luncheon.

“This is all… rather overwhelming,” Gwendolyn said, as they began to load the table with food. Little savoury pastries, a large pie, beefsteaks, chicken fricassee, buttered asparagus, celery ragout, soup, and scalloped potatoes roasted thin as paper and wafting rosemary and garlic. She tried not to dwell on how wasteful it was to offer such a very large, unnecessary meal to only two people. It was vaguely surprising that there wasn’t a cake. “I never expected… well, last night was… I ought not to have left like that.”

The prince gazed at her thoughtfully, letting go of her hand. Beneath the food, the service gleamed like silver flowerbeds, leafy edges blossoming: a fox nosing a blackberry bush at the base of a tureen, roses sprouting about the sides of platters, hares gambolling down a ladle, and an argent vegetable garden caught in the act of ripening atop a covered dish. A fanciful cornucopia held the salt and the crystal decanter, set down on a ring of silver, was collared with a sign that read ‘Madeira’ borne by two mermaids.

“I am reminded,” he said at last, starting on his soup, “of the circumstances of our first acquaintance and that I offered you sanctuary here. A flirtation is all very pleasant, but you must tell me directly, Miss Hunt, if you feel I have presumed upon that offer.” He smiled, taking a sip of Madeira, but his grey eyes were anxious. “I fear the — ah— _romantic_ nature of our meeting led me to make most dreadful free with you.”

Gwendolyn, trying to determine the pleasant but unfamiliar flavour of the soup, had a sense of vertigo, as though she had fetched up unexpectedly next to a cliff. She thought of his hand stroking her collarbone in the garden, that first ginger cake rolled between his fat fingers and, yesterday evening, when he had beckoned her onto his lap. Yet now he seemed embarrassed by these acts. Fear seized her spine. Was he thinking of ending the bet? She set down her spoon. “You have not been… subtle about your intentions, sir.”

The prince snorted and then shook his head, his puffy pink face creasing with mirth. “Bless me! I have _never_ been accused of subtlety!” He placed his right hand on his chest in mock offense, as though subtlety were murder. Gwendolyn covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. He shifted in his kingly chair, abruptly serious once more, tapping his fingers on the head of a gilded sphinx. “You must understand that when a man saves the life of a beautiful woman — the ideas that go through his head! He inevitably begins to think of her and himself as two characters in a novel.”

 _Two characters from a novel!_ He would have no compunction, she was sure, about ordering her hanged, had he any real idea of the facts. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Gwendolyn felt sorry for the pampered princeling imagining himself as the suave hero of some romance.

But if the regent was unfit for his part, then she felt herself to be an equally ill-qualified damsel. However, if she was to keep his attention and win the wager, then she would have to indulge him: “I… assure you, Your Highness, when a handsome prince rescues a lady and brings her to his palace, similarly unsuitable feelings ensue.” Guilt washed about her stomach. It did not feel as much a lie as she would wish.

He beamed at her, “Oh, ‘tis hardly a palace, but one does one’s best.” How grand must a house be before the Prince Regent termed it a palace? He must be, she thought, terribly easy to flatter. His chest had swelled at the word _handsome_ , making him look rounder than ever. Standing behind him, the page raised a disbelieving brow.

Gwendolyn took another spoonful of soup, still perplexed by the taste. It was a rich meat, very tender, and tasted like something between veal and fish. “What is this?” she asked, trying to draw the conversation towards a less uncomfortable subject.

“Mm… ’tis turtle,” he explained, finishing his glass of Madeira, which was deftly refilled by the sullen page.

 _Turtle soup!_ It was softer than she expected and not at all as chewy as she imagined such an animal might be. When she looked up to scoop some potatoes onto her plate, she found the prince still staring at her, the spoon in his hand stirring his dish of soup as though it were gruel. He seemed like the lead actor in a play who has somehow forgotten his lines. “Is something the matter?”

“Not at all!” he chuckled and the moment vanished like a stone cast into a placid lake. “I am very fond of the habit you ladies have championed of taking some noon refreshment.” He gestured for his soup dish to be removed and leaned forward to avail himself of a beefsteak and some ragout. “Eating at one’s club can be so disappointing… overcooked meat and dry ham sandwiches, not at all the sort of fare to aid the digestion or tempt one’s appetite…” Perhaps it was because so many of their intimacies had involved food, but Gwendolyn found herself surreptitiously watching him eat: the elegant angle at which he held the silver cutlery, the delicacy of his manner, every movement gracefully measured by the unhurried pleasure of each mouthful and the satisfied pauses between them.

One of the footmen came forward and passed a note to the page. He quickly read the note then leaned down and whispered something to the prince, who nodded wearily, setting down his knife and fork. “Let him in.”

A spry, pox-scarred gentleman entered the dining room, bowing deeply to the regent. “My deepest apologies for the interruption, Your Royal Highness — Miss Hunt — there are a few things that require your attention, sir…” He had a slight Irish accent. It was vaguely unsettling that this gentleman, whom she had never met before, knew her name.

“No, no… I am on _holiday_ today, Sir John,” the prince complained with a dimpled pout. But he reluctantly pushed away his plate and took the sheaf of papers. “Forgive me, my dear…” he sighed over the documents, “one has to do a little regenting now and then.”

The footman had retreated to the back of the dining room to join his fellows, as still as a line of waxworks. The pie turned out to be filled with partridge in red wine sauce and, as she set about cutting her way around the bones, Gwendolyn discreetly eased her toes out of the slippers. She did not know whether to be frustrated or relieved by the interruption.

 

~*~

 

George took his lorgnette out of his pocket, peering at the papers his secretary had brought, and idly picked up a vol-au-vent (just one could not hurt). The crunch of pastry crumbled to rich béchamel and white wine perfection. Several routine orders required his signature, and there was a letter from the prime minister, as well as a grovelling note from Mr Young at the British Institution.

Miss Hunt was entirely too distracting, wrapped in mallow blue velvet edged with layers of _point duchesse_ ruffles. The lacework fluttered against her pale neck and her pretty fingers. She was eating rather carefully, as though afraid that the lace cuffs might spill over her food. Yet even this awkwardness could not mar the sweetness of her lips. He wanted to touch her hair (did she use papers to achieve such splendid curls?). Unable to resist the lingering aftertaste of buttery mushroom, George availed himself of a second vol-au-vent (they _were_ quite small, after all) as Gollop fetched a tray with pen and ink.

Again, he was struck by how strange it was to be enamoured with such a thin, unpolished thing, but it was her eyes that kept drawing his gaze. Those dark, haunted eyes that had stared up at him from beneath his carriage furs and had looked so lost when he had offered her a dish of hot chocolate. He dashed off a few signatures before breaking the seal on the letter from Lord Liverpool, glancing through its contents whilst carefully wiping flakes of pastry from his mouth with a napkin.

 _Unsuitable feelings!_ It was the first time Miss Hunt had professed attraction towards him. The sentiment was there, he knew, subject to his artful cultivation, but it was most pleasant to hear it confessed, especially since she had made no secret of her initial view of him. _Handsome prince._ If she had been determined to flatter him, she would have paid him compliments before today. He really was taking terrible liberties with her, but now he could not bring himself to care. Every thought of breaking with the girl fled from his mind.

George applied himself again to the letter, realising that he was merely staring at it and comprehending nothing. It would not do to bore Miss Hunt when he could devote himself to government business later. Strangely, it was not in Liverpool’s hand. Instead, the thing appeared to be the work of the entire cabinet, copied out by some secretary.

_No subject is viewed with more jealousy or suspicion than the personal expenses of the Sovereign or his representative… The expenses incurred at Brighton in the course of this last year would have made a considerable augmentation to the debt already incurred... Parliament may therefore refuse to pay the debt… Your Royal Highness’s servants are seriously apprehensive that upon some of the questions connected with this business they will be deserted by many of their best friends & that it is even probable that they will be left in a minority… fatal to their reputation if not to their existence as an Administration…_

“What is _this?”_ George looked askance at the letter.

_Your Royal Highness’s servants humbly submit that the only means… of weathering the impending storm is by stating on the direct authority of Your Royal Highness and by your command… that all new expenses for additions or alterations at Brighton or elsewhere will, under the present circumstances, be abandoned…_

“This — this is blackmail… they _cannot_ be serious!” he exclaimed. The fact that they refused to help him clear his debts was upsetting enough, but the idea of a little redecoration bringing down the government was ridiculous! Was he expected to have his beloved retreat cluttered with ladders and half-finished masonry? He could _not_ have any repetition of that awful debacle with the stables. What of the Chinese wall papers and the bamboo staircases? What of the copper sheeting that needed to be laid so that the new kitchen did not leak? And what of those glorious domes and minarets he had so long envisioned?

_…Parliament will never vote one shilling for defraying such expenses, if unfortunately they were to be persevered in… if by any extraordinary chance funds for such a purpose could come to Your Royal Highness’s disposal, it would be their duty nevertheless to deprecate even the appearance of Your Royal Highness embarking on new expenses whilst the present distresses of the country continue in force… the effect must be to create unfavourable impressions which may never be effaced… indicating an insensibility on the part of Your Royal Highness… to the sufferings & deprivations of others…_

“The pack of _cowards_ ,” George hissed, disgusted, casting the letter aside. McMahon hastily snatched it up. “How _dare_ they send me this, _this_ — the damned thing isn’t even _signed!”_

Miss Hunt was staring at him. Half-way to her mouth, a length of asparagus was dripping butter. There was something odd about the mirrors. Behind the flowers and gilded candlesticks, light the colours of a summer afternoon glimmered without reflection. It drew his gaze away from Miss Hunt, his eyes chasing the flickering light amongst the gilded traceries of the dining room. _It’s the drink,_ George told himself uneasily, his eyes watering. “You see how I am treated?” he continued to vent. “What am I to tell Nash… what of those employed to work on the renovations? How can one _trust_ such ministers? You will summon Liverpool here tomorrow! And it is only not today for fear I would knock his teeth out! Insensible, the nerve! I’ll give them _insensible_ …!”

“Mention _is_ made of the seventy-thousand pounds already given to Your Royal Highness for additional building and furniture at Brighton…” his secretary carefully replied. _It is your duty — you fat ingrate — to set an example for your people as a modest and sensible prince! And yet what do we have? Debts, sir! How was the money spent, eh? Very eloquent you are when asking me to pay, wot! And yet now silent when I ask what it is I am to pay for!_

George leaned back in his chair and said nothing. He felt faint. It could only mean that they did not believe there would be a harvest, after all. The thought left him feeling utterly enervated and hollow with pity at the thought of the vast misery to come. _It is not my fault_ , he tried to convince himself. If the government was truly foundering, they could hardly blame such opprobrium on his expenses at Brighton! But what if Liverpool resigned? Then there would be yet another round of excruciating fuss over who he might ask to form the next government.

“A damaging anonymous paper has been published,” McMahon continued softly, “comparing the, ahem — the word used is _salaries_ — of the officers of the British Government with those men who govern America…”

“I’ve read that,” Miss Hunt interrupted, looking oddly bright-eyed.

George caught the slightly bewildered glance that passed between his secretary and his Whiggish flirt. Of course, it wasn’t at all surprising that a young lady like Miss Hunt read such foul stuff. He treated her to a crooked smile. “Perhaps you’ll do me the honour of regaling me with its particulars? I feel certain that _your_ version will be less circumspect than Sir John’s.”

“Sir, I—”

George held up a hand to silence his secretary and continued to level an expectant stare at Miss Hunt. He was dallying with a girl from the enemy camp, after all. He might as well make use of her.

“Well, it—” she halted nervously, her dark lashes contemplating the table. “It questions the expense of royalty as compared to the services it, um—” her pretty cheeks flushed as she continued to address the silverware, “the services it renders the state… but applies the same rule to your ministers… I don’t recall the particulars.”

“Gwendolyn,” George said flatly, pausing to avail himself of the Madeira and a third vol-au-vent (hang moderation!), “if there is one thing I _detest_ , it is an insult to my intelligence. The particulars, if you please?”

“Oh, no really, but I… I suppose it… called you the most highly-compensated and least useful member of the government… and complained that you fulfil no serious function and delegate the few responsibilities you do have… and deplored that almost six-hundred-thousand a year is devoted to a personage whose…” She finally looked up at him and George was shocked by the iron in her stare, “whose only contact with his people resembles the relations between the citizens of Athens and the rapacious Minotaur of Crete to whom they must annually sacrifice that which they hold most dear.”

“Ah,” George found himself saying with a sleepy grin, “so ‘tis true they have already discovered that I am feasting on unwed girls. I had thought, m’dear, we were keeping that between ourselves?” McMahon coughed and Gwendolyn’s blush deepened considerably _. The least useful…_ A scream was forming in the back of his mind. It bore every inch of that old sting of worthlessness, but George did not let it pierce his façade. “Do you hear, Sir John? To think what could be done with six-hundred-thousand pounds. What nonsense!”

His secretary nodded. “The figure given in the pamphlet is five-hundred-and-ninety-five-thousand… it is certainly grossly exaggerated in terms of income, but if one considers the various grants parliament has made towards London entertainments, extensions to the Royal Lodge, improvements at Brighton… and the repayment of Your Royal Highness’ still considerable debts…”

George frowned, irritated at being contradicted. “So what does Mr Madison receive for his services to the United States of America?”

“According to the paper it is something in the order of five-thousand a year, Your Royal Highness, but _his_ salary is compared to the ten-thousand now annually allotted to the King, whereas yours is held up against that of the Vice-President, which — according to the pamphlet — is, ah… only an allowance of a thousand pounds… it is causing, ah, not a little unrest. I have been attempting to ascertain who printed the thing, but so far — forgive me — I have been unable to locate its source…”

George could not help but laugh at such an absurd sum. £1,000! What misers the Americans were! “So, if the president lost his wits, the poor man would be governing a country for half of what I am paying my chef?”

“I… would imagine so, Your Royal Highness. Although, one hears, the position is largely a sinecure.”

“I’ll have you know that Monsieur Carême works tirelessly for such a sum!”

“I _meant_ the vice-presidency, sir.”

“Yes, yes…” he drummed his fingers on the table, annoyed that his joke had not lightened the conversation. Eerie light still conspired to set the room at odds. “You, Miss Hunt, are an intelligent young woman who reads the papers and you, Sir John, are secretary to the Prince of Wales and the keeper of my privy purse… would one of you oblige me with the name of the Vice-President of the United States of America?”

They both looked at him blankly. After a moment, McMahon rallied, “I can easily send a note to the Foreign Office…?”

“There is no need, for I can tell you the answer, which is that they have no Vice-President, and have not had one for almost two years, since the death of Mr Gerry shortly before I put my signature to the Treaty of Ghent.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Good God, one wonders if the poor man was not murdered for the sake of economy!”

“Sir—”

“I am the Prince of Wales and Regent of the Three Kingdoms, not some petty colonial politician! The splendour of _my_ household reflects the power of the British crown! Anyone with an ounce of sense would not _dream_ of making such a preposterous comparison. Can you imagine any well-bred American not knowing _my_ name?” 

“But think how much easier it would be,” Miss Hunt interrupted, giving him a teasing smile, “if they were _all_ named George Washington after their first president?”

George took a deep breath, attempting to regain his composure. It was all too much: the oppressive haze of the drink, the censure of his ministers, and this absurd discussion. He strove to lighten his manner. “You forget, Gwen, that, as they have the misfortune to be a republic, their officers of state change every few years, and one would very soon end up with an immense preponderance of Washingtons, sure to confound any student of history.” He happened to glance down at the note from the gallery. “The comparison is insulting. That is an end to it. You may tell Colonel Bloomfield to inform Mr Young that I intend to view the pictures this afternoon.”

“Sir, the gallery will be open to the public today…” McMahon paled. “I cannot guarantee that Your Royal Highness’ reception will be amicable.”

“Then prevail upon him to bar them for a mere hour!” He was on his feet. The service clinked as his palm hit the table. George panted, shocked by the force of his own temper. Where was the purity of that morning window? Gone the moment he stepped out of his bedroom. He pulled his hand back. It stung. He had dared not attend the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy because of the hateful glares of the public. “I am _going_ , Sir John.” He shot a glance at his wide-eyed companion. “And Miss Hunt will accompany me.”

 

~*~

 

A closed yellow berlin, four horses — all dappled grey — and four outriders with guns, sabres, and plumed helmets. Soldiers, grooms, equerries, and servants (hardly distinguishable from each other in their splendid uniforms) bustled outside. It brought back the freezing road, the terror of discovery, and the weight of the explosives in her basket. Over and over, she had thought of how the prince’s carriage would appear in the distance, slowly drawing closer, and how she would light the fuse, imagining the spark that would engulf everything. Dusk had settled into dark as the rain slowly reached through her clothes and under her skin, and still no carriage… Gwendolyn shivered at the memory, standing on the marble tiles just inside the entrance hall.

The Prince Regent was fussing with his greatcoat and gloves. He appeared to be determined to ignore the letter from his ministers, yet anyone could see he was on edge, full of too-ready smiles, boisterous nerves, and very tipsy. “Are you cold, Miss Hunt?”   

“No, I—”

He smiled as a servant handed him his hat and cane. “Bring Miss Hunt a cloak and one of my sable muffs!”

Gwendolyn was terrified of the idea of appearing in public with him. It was one thing to be his guest, it was quite another to be seen in his company. Even borrowing one of his carriages had invited people’s scorn. What if she was recognised by someone she knew? No one would be interested in her explanations, even if that were possible. For all everyone talked of his philandering, how many women would _want_ to be seen on the arm of such a man? It was embarrassing. “Surely,” she entreated quietly, glancing warily at the carriage, “I am not a suitable companion for Your Highness?”

“You look as lovely as any man could wish,” the prince reassured her, a little unsteady on his feet. “Ah! Here is a something to warm your dainty paws…” He passed her the fur muff and then wrapped a dark blue cloak around her shoulders. Kerrick had brought her a pair of finely tooled half-boots (which fortunately fit) and she was wearing the ludicrous feathered shako. Still — as silly as the layers of silk, velvet, lace, furs, and feathers made her feel — the whole ensemble was undeniably warm.   

Stepping out under the _porte cochère,_ Gwendolyn felt the frigid air hit her uncovered face. She wanted to run back inside, but that was impossible. She recognised the pale, thin-lipped colonel from her first day at Carlton House. He stood beside the door to help the pursy prince into the carriage. Gwendolyn hung back, observing the regent’s difficulty in getting his foot up onto the iron step.

But his polished shoe eventually found its purchase and he awkwardly manoeuvred his bulk into the berlin. Then it was her turn. She did not return the colonel’s smile as he handed her up, remembering how he had suggested sending soldiers to attack the crowd of petitioners. “Are you certain I should go with you?” she asked the prince desperately, ducking her head to avoid knocking her tall hat against the carriage roof. “I’m not suitable…”

“Nonsense, you must sit beside me,” he insisted. Extra-large in his immense greatcoat, there hardly seemed to be any room, but he gave a little shuffle, brushing the spread of his coat off the red cushioned seat, and allowed her to slip in beside him.

Then the colonel entered, taking the place opposite the prince, followed by Kerrick, who closed the door and knocked for the whip to set out. Gwendolyn had a strange feeling of _déjà vu_. Although the regent smiled, he seemed almost as tense as she was now that the carriage was moving. His arm found her waist and pulled her close. The musky orange heat of him only made her feel ill. Stifling the urge to push him away and unable to meet the eyes of the page seated opposite her, she rested quietly against the prince’s side, staring at her knees.

“I am told there are a number of fine Dutch works on display,” the regent chatted, presumably to all three of them, as the horses’ hooves clipped closer to the carriage gate. “There’s a Van Eyck I am _most_ interested to see, though I believe it’s only on loan… of course, there will be a repeat of those English paintings that did not sell at the Academy during the summer exhibition, but often there are some excellent works whose only misfortune was to be unfavourably positioned and, in any case, _I_ did not get to see them… though Yarmouth was kind enough to acquire a few good ones for me…”

Yarmouth, wasn’t that the person the Duke of York mentioned yesterday? Two soldiers swung the gate wide and the yellow berlin passed through the archway and into the muck and splendour of Pall Mall. The Prince Regent was still talking: “…And, apparently, they have even planned a French retrospective, which the critics won’t like a jot, but there are some very fine Poussins…  and I was told there is a landscape by a man named Constable that ought to be seen…”

Gwendolyn glanced anxiously out the window. The royal postilions and outriders drew the attention of all passers-by. Her own exit yesterday had attracted little notice by comparison. A gentleman on horseback doffed his hat in deference to the regent, but most stares were hostile. “The Prince of Wales For _ever!”_ someone shouted, and a few other people picked up the cheer. It took Gwendolyn a moment before she realised that it was a sarcastic hurrah hoping the man beside her would never become king. They have every right to be angry, she thought.

The Prince Regent fell silent, but his smile remained in place, though it might as well have been painted on. He shifted in discomfort, jostling Gwendolyn, appearing to settle on her as a refuge for his nervous eyes.  He kissed her cheek and, although she was already small beside him, she wished herself smaller, so that she might curl up and vanish between his greatcoat and the red velvet upholstery.

“Did you bring anything to drink?” the prince asked his page abruptly.

“Forgive me, Your Royal Highness, I did not think… for such a short journey…” Kerrick’s apology appeared to be sincere, but Gwendolyn suspected it was not thoughtlessness that was to blame but his reluctance to provide his already soused master with any more liquor. “There is a box of chocolate conserves…”

Something hit the side of the carriage, making Gwendolyn jump. Had someone thrown a rock? The prince startled too, but he affected to ignore the missile just as he pretended not to notice the jeers. “Open it, then!” he snapped. “Can you not see that Miss Hunt is in need of something to settle her nerves?”

Kerrick produced a beautiful box tied with a pink ribbon. “Monsieur Carême says that it is his _conserve de chocolat_ , but with Cornish clotted cream in honour of Your Royal Highness.”

“Such a dear fellow…” the prince said faintly.

Kerrick undid the ribbon and offered Gwendolyn the box. It was lined with fine pink crepe and inside were pale brown sweets, each shaped like a rosette. Another stone hit the carriage and she felt queasy. But, mindful of the prince’s scrutiny, she put one in her mouth.

The chocolate was not in the least bitter or over-spiced. Instead, it seemed to ride on a thick wave of rich cream that, for all its density, still dissolved on her tongue like sugar. It was obscene. Gwendolyn could hear people heckling the royal coach, insulting the prince and complaining about the price of bread, and _she_ was eating sweets. Her world was the one outside, real and full of suffering, not this faerie land of art and chocolate conserve. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” she said blankly, the box still sitting in her lap.

The prince took one with an appreciative hum. The same throaty hum he made when they kissed. “My God,” he exclaimed, taking another. “I could eat ten of these!”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Gwendolyn’s stomach. An image formed in her mind of the two of them alone in that intimate blue room — Prinny sprawled helplessly beneath her in some ornate, fathomless armchair — seeing just how many pieces of chocolate conserve he could actually consume.

Quickly, Gwendolyn shoved the box back to Kerrick, who gave her a quizzical look before offering a piece to the colonel. Then the carriage halted. How could they be there already? She looked up. They had stopped outside a building that seemed rather over-decorated for its size, its narrow frontage stuffed with columns, stained-glass, statues, and friezes. The words _British Institution_ sat above the open doors which, to her, seemed to yawn like the gates of hell.

“No, I really…” she mumbled feebly, feeling sick. “I just… I’ve decided I will wait in the carriage… you’re the Prince Regent, and I am… I’m just a… it isn’t proper!”

The prince took another conserve and glanced across at her haughtily. “I fail to see why your making an exhibition of yourself by gliding through my hall in a state of undress should be less disagreeable to you than the stares of a few artists and gentlemen of business.”

The words hit her like a brick. There was no trace of Prinny in the look he was giving her. It was the grey-eyed glare of a man who would one day be King of England. It did not condescend an inch.

“Perhaps,” he continued coldly, “your apprehension is due to the fact that you do not believe _me_ to be a suitable companion for a young lady such as yourself?”

He _wasn’t_ a suitable companion and he knew it! “Sir, you _are_ married, however unhappily…”

Kerrick winced, glancing anxiously at his master, while the Prince Regent went very still. “Do not,” he growled, “refer to _that woman_ in connection with me.” His eyes narrowed and his heavy cheeks grew even ruddier. “Caroline, Caroline, Caroline! That is all one hears these days — huzzah for the Princess of Wales! Never mind that she is a vulgar, spiteful, _dirty_ person lacking any sort of accomplishment — never mind that she conspired to _ruin_ my daughter — and her body is enough to make any man feel faint, barring those whose tastes are as coarse as her own!”

The prince was panting, his eyes watery, and Gwendolyn stared at him dumbly, wondering why on earth she had mentioned the princess. Really, the fact that he was married was probably the _least_ outlandish thing about this entire affair. Most rich aristocrats kept a mistress, and everyone knew that the prince and princess were separated; she was more likely to offend Lady Hertford than Princess Caroline.

“Where is the consideration for _my_ sensibilities?” the prince continued. “Faith, I did my duty — you _cannot_ understand!” His breath was faltering and his red face suddenly turned pale. Gwendolyn wondered if he was about to faint. “I had thought… I only wanted…” And now the prince was crying, truly crying, and Gwendolyn sat frozen beside him. It was as though he had lost a layer of skin. All his grand polish had evaporated.

He gasped for breath, his fingers fluttering about his collar. Trembling, he seemed to want to loosen his cravat, but his hands stopped just short of its intricate folds. He looked towards the window — hyperventilating, transfixed — before letting out a small cry and clutching his lace handkerchief. “I — I need to be bled, yes, I… I feel… very ill…”

The colonel pulled the blind down on his side of the carriage, shielding the prince from the stares of the public, and Tom Kerrick threw the box of conserves aside and did the same. “Breathe, sir…!” he insisted. “If it be your nerves, I have some salts…”

The prince shook his head, sobbing into his handkerchief, obviously mortified by his tears. Kerrick glared at Gwendolyn in the half-darkness as if to say, _you should know better_ , and then kicked her, quite hard, in the leg.

She bit down on her yelp and glared furiously back at him, but he only looked pointedly towards the regent. His words came back to her: _His Royal Highness is in desperate need of help._ This had always been there, she realised, lurking just under the surface, no matter how many times she had pushed the notion away. “Your Highness…” Gwendolyn said softly, trying to ignore her smarting calf. She stroked his large shoulder. “Prinny, I’m sorry… I’ve really no idea of your life… and it’s as you’ve said, I’ve no right to judge you on gossip… I was nervous, and…”

He gave no reply, still trembling and snuffling into the cambric handkerchief, but slowly leaned his weight against her. Gwendolyn put her arms around him, feeling his uneven breaths on her neck. The prince murmured something unintelligible into her shoulder. Kerrick passed her a handkerchief and she carefully drew the sodden lace out from between his fingers and passed him the page’s fresh cotton one. Outside, most of the jeering had subsided, although she could still hear one person hissing. How could anyone cope with such universal hatred without it shredding their nerves? “It’s going to be all right,” she said, as confidently as she could manage.

 _No criticism whatsoever._ At the time, she had assumed the warning was only royal vanity. Someone once told her a joke about how, when Beau Brummell criticised the cut of his coat, the prince had burst into tears. His big frame was pressing her uncomfortably into the side of the carriage and she could feel the bruise forming on her leg. But his breathing had slowed to an almost regular pace. “Prinny…” she whispered, “do you still wish to visit the gallery…?”

The prince sat up and pulled away from her, wiping his eyes. “We’ve come… this… damned far…” They hadn’t even left Pall Mall. “I told… Young… to expect me. I cannot… p-possibly… disappoint him. _You_ ,” he paused, blowing his nose, “do not have to accompany me.” He looked incredibly weary.

Gwendolyn longed to stay in the carriage. The idea of stepping out on the regent’s arm was terrifying. “Yes I do,” she said. “I’m your mistress until I win the bet.”

“Oh, you _are_ , are you?” his tone was sharp.

“Yes I am,” she replied briskly, reaching over and taking the box from beside the page. “Do you want another conserve before we go?”

“Hm,” the prince said sulkily, taking one. It restored him a little to himself, she could tell. “You can open the damned door, Kerrick.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness!”

She was third out of the carriage and, to her surprise, there were no more jeers. It was raining softly. A number of people were standing in front of the gallery carrying flat leather satchels. The thoroughfare slowed. No one hissed. It was so quiet she heard the prince grunt under his breath as his feet hit the paving stones. His gracious smile, bestowed on all the onlookers, gave no hint of as to what had just transpired. Everyone stared with stony silence as the Prince Regent stepped out into the Mall. Taking a deep breath, Gwendolyn took his arm.

 


	7. Choux à la Crème

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have delayed William Etty’s departure for the continent by a month. The British Institution usually showed loaned works in summer and pieces for sale in winter but I have gone with a mix of the two to give a little more variety. The Marquess of Stafford (created the Duke of Sutherland by William IV) regularly championed the Pall Mall gallery and gave dinners for the Prince of Wales. Scottish people continue to graffiti the Duke’s hundred-foot commemorative statue (known as the “Wee Mannie”) and remove stones from its plinth in the hope that it eventually falls over.

_Is natural, is passing fair;_

_That man should take especial care_

_To brace his nerves, his strength recruit,_

_And make his intellect acute,_

_By active means and labours great,_

_To wield the sceptre of the state;_

_Tho’ some prefer, their whims to please,_

_To drink and revel—live at ease—_

_To study gewgaws, tinsel’d trifle—_

_Humanely people’s pockets rifle._

 

~ ‘The Seven Wives of Sultan Sham’

 

 

The cold air was raw on George’s throat. He squinted in the light, smiling, hardly feeling the rain. At least, he hoped he was smiling; his aching cheeks wound up like clocks. The foot-way bled reflections like the surface of a lake and the stench of horse manure turned his stomach. Short of breath, his diaphragm fighting his stays, he endeavoured to draw calm through his body like a man trying to draw still water from a deep well.

He was always falling. Sometimes he did not even know in which direction. His doctors said it was his nerves. Every shadow deepened and every colour heightened, weighing on his chest, while the world itself threatened to detach from his feet.  It could catch at any moment like a needle under his lungs, threading a line of vertigo up his body, indifferent to his situation. He wished it had not happened in front of Miss Hunt.

George moved slowly, light-headed, his surroundings gradually extending into faces and figures. Their mouths were as compressed as their eyes were wide. He gave a small wave, acknowledging a welcome they did not offer. His eyes were sore and his tongue felt as though he had eaten too many bitter chocolate _diavolini_. Another bout of vertigo swayed the ground like a ship’s deck. He tried not to look like a spooked horse, fretting as he searched for a person who returned his smile. This had been a mistake. It was _always_ a mistake. He longed for a glass of brandy.

An arm slipped into his and he almost stumbled in surprise. Miss Hunt’s face was pale beneath the brim of her feathered shako. He could still feel the ghost of her narrow shoulder against his wet face. Her lips curled softly upwards at the edges.

The familiar figure of John Young, all angles in his grey coat, was hurrying out to greet them. George knew he ought to pull away, but the tips of Miss Hunt’s gloved fingers gave his arm a comforting press and her dark eyes were full of concern. It felt as though there were spilt marmalade between their bodies, the sticky embarrassment of a stain.

“But you promised that my pupils might sketch the Poussins!” a strident voice broke the silence. A heavy-set man, flushed with distemper, was hot on the gallery keeper’s heels. 

Such a dainty picture Gwendolyn made: the blue cloak tied at her neck with a silk ribbon, his sable muff dangling off one delicate wrist, and that mauve velvet gown with a teasing of lace at every hem. He hardly recalled what had brought him to this moment. Last night’s feverish dreams, the letter… yes, his ministers…

“And they _shall_ , but you see, the exhibition is closed, I…” Young was trying to edge away, flustered. The fellow chasing him, upon catching sight of George, startled and stepped back, looking more disagreeable than ever.

Miss Hunt’s arm was still wrapped firmly around his own. If this was her apology, it was astonishing. No onlooker could fail to be intrigued his lovely roadside damsel. She ought to walk behind him — no, she ought not to be here at all. He thought of Isabella’s anxiety over their affair, her refusal to live with him publically, and Maria whose pride had brought him to his knees. How different from this brave creature who had just put her reputation entirely in his hands! Nor was it a brazen thing, for he could feel her little hand tremble.

“I paid my shilling!” another gentleman complained, to the general agreement of a group of persons carrying sketch cases – presumably the upset pupils. Bloomfield shifted uncomfortably, gesturing for his officers to move between George and the small crowd. A tolerably well-dressed couple looked uncertain about joining the complainants, whilst others merely stared as though at Drury Lane. _Enter the Prince Regent accompanied by a Lady and his Attendants._

“Your Royal Highness!” Young gasped out, reaching George and making his bow. The keeper should have waited to be acknowledged before speaking but, given the circumstances, he was inclined to forgive the man. Pall Mall was no ballroom. Still, it was a far cry from the cordial welcome he would have received yesterday as the institution’s chief patron.

George wrenched his gaze away from Miss Hunt. “Young, ‘tis always a pleasure… I do hope I have not inconvenienced you?” Speaking eased the cruel tension in his stomach and Gwendolyn was a comfortable weight on his arm.

“Never, sir, never…!” The gallery keeper was unable to resist an anxious glance at the grumbling crowd.

“I cannot possibly put anyone out.” Still feeling faint, George beckoned for the disgruntled artist to approach. He vaguely recalled the man’s sharp nose, brown curls, and square features. “Have we met before?”  

“Once,” he answered with a curt bow. “I had the honour of being introduced to Your Royal Highness four years ago, when you gifted the Academy with Vulliamy’s chandelier.”  

It had been an exceptionally convivial two-course dinner, George recalled, with a great many toasts and cheers. His speech had been very well received. He remembered the piano tinkling to the gentle waft of violins — one of Pleyel’s concertos? There had been a large dish of oyster ragout close to his elbow — coated in raspings and exquisitely fried — and he’d drunk rather a lot of dry champagne. Scott had been there, and he’d chatted to Wilkie about his ‘Blind-Man’s Buff’, but it had been Lawrence who had presented several of his students to him… one of whom owned a nose to rival the Duke of Wellington…

“Etty!” George beamed, pleased by the shock on the artist’s face. “Rather keen on mythological subjects, if I recall?” Lawrence said Etty was tired of copying his portraits and wanted to paint statuesque nudes. Faith, it sounded like a very pleasant occupation for a man! Yet it didn’t appear to be going very well if he was obliged to take on so many students. “Fine stuff! You might send me a few sketches, hm?”  

Etty’s mouth fell open. “I… yes, thank you, Your Highness…”

“And these charming people are your pupils?” George did not wait for him to reply, making a cordial bow to those assembled and taking control of the situation as politely as he dared. “You _must_ present them to me,” he enthused, stepping forward with another languid wave. “But, inside… out of this rain, eh?”

A stray lock curled against Miss Hunt’s sharp cheek. There was no way to disentangle himself without insulting the lady and he found he had no will to do so. _Hang them all, Wales._ He saw dear old Fox, unshaven and dishevelled as usual, peering at him merrily from beneath those shaggy eyebrows, with beautiful Lizzie on his knee. Drinking at White’s until seven in the morning, thence to Almack’s (back when it was more gambling than dancing), and setting out for the Newmarket races at three in the afternoon, and who knew where any of them would end up by nightfall…

How strange it was, still, to think of all that as belonging to another century. The only protection he could give Miss Hunt now was in declining to offer anyone an introduction. But what would that purchase? It might keep her name out of the papers for a few days, perhaps, or a week if they were fortunate. Why was it he could not keep his head where women were concerned? He had never intended to take it this far. George patted the little hand on his arm. There were a thousand reasons not to escort Miss Hunt inside. _Hang them all._

 

~*~

 

Everyone followed the Prince Regent into the gallery, whether they were Mr Etty’s students or not. The interior was painted a brilliant, daunting red. Four imposing soldiers in blue coats and yellow hessians formed the points of a square around Gwendolyn and the prince. It was difficult to see the paintings in their heavy gilt frames over the heads of his guards and the crowd. Colonel Bloomfield seemed uneasy with the regent’s proximity to the public while Kerrick, after taking his master’s hat and greatcoat, moved off to speak with Mr Young about laying down some baize carpets (the prince’s polished shoes were, it seemed, too grand for simple floorboards).

All around Gwendolyn there were conversations she could not quite hear, accompanied by pointed glances. Her leg still hurt. She had met with disapproval before (men who did not think it right for a woman to discuss political matters and women who thought that she ought to be finding a husband instead of attending rowdy public meetings with Thomas), but it was the sort of censure she could bear with defiance, knowing herself in the right. This was different. _Oh Lord, why did I not stay in the carriage?_ She could imagine being any one of these people, sneering at the sight of an overdressed young woman arm in arm with the Prince of Wales.

In public all of the regent’s flaws seemed to be magnified. Things she had grown accusteomed to at Carlton House were now embarrassing. The beautifully tailored black coat could do nothing to disguise his stout figure. His smile only served to emphasise his fat, florid cheeks, while his jovial, half-cut pleasantries made him seem foolish and deepened the lines around his eyes. What glittering rewards, they must all be wondering, could be worth enduring the affections of this corpulent, disreputable buffoon of two and fifty?

Yet a sort of alchemy was taking place around her because the nearer anyone drew to the prince, the fainter their disapproval became. Instead there were nervous smiles, faces pale or flushed, chuckling when the prince chuckled, and all a flutter to be presented by the bewildered Mr Etty, who did not know half of the people now claiming to be his pupils in order to boast that they had been introduced to the Prince Regent. _What hypocrites,_ she thought. _How their censure melts when given the chance to touch a royal hand!_

A stab of fury shot through Gwendolyn. She tried to keep the glare from her face. How was the country ever to prosper while such feudal adoration could laud even the most hated of princes? And how was he ever to mend his ways when subjected to such false proofs of affection? It was all so pathetic: the small crowd hanging on the regent’s words, the hushed spite at its edges, and the merry prince in the middle. Had his tears been only for her sympathy?

He’d been given £70,000 for furniture alone and considered even _that_ insufficient! The Lord knew, Gwendolyn had no love of Lord Liverpool, but even _he_ had called the Prince Regent’s selfishness insensible and it had made the man fuss like a fubsy child in his golden dining room.

“And who is your enchanting lady?” Startled out of her thoughts, she stared at a gentleman, just coming up from his bow, whose gaze was shifting speculatively between her and the regent.

“La, ‘tis true!” The prince’s smile softened as he glanced at Gwendolyn, who shifted uncomfortably. “Enchanting is the very word,” he fondly concluded to the astonished gentleman. Then he calmly turned his attention to a couple waiting to greet him. It was the same with anyone else who asked about her. He called her charming, lovely, beautiful, and his _very dear_ _one_. He even compared her to the works of art on the gallery walls — leaving no one in any doubt as to the nature of their liaison — but refused to let anyone address her.

Acutely embarrassed and unable to look at the false faces of those surrounding her, it was easiest to confine her gaze to the floor or Prinny. She searched for some trace of his earlier distress and found it only in the slight unsteadiness in his gait and the way his arm tightened whenever she attempted to ease away. “Are you recovered?” she murmured, after the throng had spread thin to allow green carpets to be unrolled across the gallery boards.

“Not in the slightest,” he replied. “In point of fact, I doubt I _shall_ recover. I am more in need of your tender physic than ever.” The knot in her stomach gave a sharp tug as he turned to tuck two fingers under her chin. Although encased in soft kid leather, they were the same two warm digits that had been coated in lemon frosting.

“Sir,” she hissed, annoyed by his flippancy, “you _know_ I meant–”

He nodded. “I do.”

Gwendolyn’s lips tingled as his fingers caressed the line of her jaw. His broad stomach brushed lightly against her and she could feel his fob ornaments tangling in her cloak. Flustered and disturbed by such public attentions, she wanted to shove him away, even as she wished they were alone. _Is he going to kiss me?_

Something solid pressed into her back and she startled. It was the large frame of a painting. Their conversation might be private, but nothing else was. Gwendolyn could feel the eyes watching her critically. _What an indecent display, has she no shame?_ It was a relief when he pulled back. She felt ready to cry.

The regent smiled, leading her towards a staircase, and signalled cheerfully to his page. “Kerrick! Run down the Mall and fetch everyone some refreshments, will you?”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness!”

Could he really be hungry? _No_ , she thought, _he’s starting to sober up, that’s the trouble._ There hadn’t been anything to drink in the carriage.

 

~*~

 

George did not remember there being quite so many stairs to reach the upper gallery. The carpets were a nice gesture, although the green formed a most distracting contrast with the scarlet walls and, layered over one another at unexpected intervals as they were, one had to watch one’s footing. Miss Hunt threw him a painfully solicitous glance every time he stopped to take a breath or two.

When — at last — they reached the top of the staircase, George was greeted by a large, distant portrait of his father. The rain was a gentle patter against the skylights, which provided the familiar features with only pale, half-hearted illumination. The King was seated, glancing slightly to the left of the viewer, with no blue in his eyes. Here, his father owned none of the elegance lent him by Ramsay’s almost French composition. Grand, coldly gleaming white and gold had been replaced by warm, earthy ochres, glowing as though candlelit. Only Fred visited the old man now.

Easels had been set up and aspiring copyists looked up from their charcoals. A few made to stand, but he waved them back down. The earlier commotion had, thankfully, been reduced to the whispers and shuffling common in any picture gallery. He reached for a handkerchief to dry his forehead only to hastily stuff the soiled lump of cotton back into his pocket.

Taking out his lorgnette, he moved forward to examine the canvas. It was a Reynolds. The panting must be on loan from the Royal Academy. He vaguely recalled them commissioning their old president to paint the King, perhaps in an attempt to improve relations between the two. George smiled at the thought. Once his father had decided he disliked someone, no power on earth would shift his opinion. But he could not blame the academians. It was a lesson that had taken him the better part of his life to understand.

Perhaps it was because he had so readily succumbed to all that George III had most hated in himself. His stocky Calenberg build had driven the King to eat only simple fare and his eye for women — as fine as his ear for music — had been subordinated, always, to duty. People loved that about his father. Well, he was easy to admire from afar. No wonder they said he fell in love with a Quaker girl.  A Quaker had once chased George across the South Downs with a letter worrying over his mortal soul. It had been a kind letter too, for all it warned him of his sinful intemperance.

His father hadn’t been so circumspect. _You are no son of mine, you filthy, gluttonous reprobate!_ The King’s nails had clawed into his neck, mad eyes raw with fury, as he tried to crush George’s windpipe. His mother insisted it was only the affliction – that his father had poured vitriol on everyone — but George could not help but feel it was the truth a sane man would never acknowledge.

“Is it true to life?” Miss Hunt asked.

“It depends… I was perhaps eighteen when this was painted, so that would make him… oh, forty or thereabouts.” _How could it have been painted so long ago?_

“He doesn’t _look_ forty,” she frowned.

They both stared at the fresh-faced likeness of his father. It seemed a sad, innocent thing, after all that had happened. “I believe,” George said quickly, “that it is meant to be the coronation portrait he never gave Sir Joshua the chance to paint — hence the King’s youth.” He could hardly imagine becoming a king at twenty-two. _The Prince of Wales forever,_ the jeer echoed in his mind. Brooks had high odds that he would not live to succeed his father (his doctors, bless them, agreed with the bookmakers as politely as they dared). _At least my daughter is married._

Under Reynolds’ brush, bright silk had become rough, rich velvet. He reached out to touch the side of the gilded frame.

 _“A painting should look finished, eh?”_ George’s mouth fell open at the sound of his father’s voice, ruthlessly cheerful and disapproving all at once. _“Not all rough stuff, wot!”_ He could see the old—fashioned chamber beyond St Edward’s chair and smell the oily stench of the artist’s studio. Cochineal beetles, black-legged and red-backed, crawled through lac and their own white dust to colour the King’s florid cheeks.

 _Mr Ramsay will always be my painter._ The King did not need to say it; it was in his stiff bark and the way he glared into the middle distance. _“It is my considered opinion, Your Majesty,”_ George found himself saying _,_ in a voice that was not his own, _“that a steady attention to the general effect is more useful than any amount of high finishing or smoothness.”_

“Your Highness?” Miss Hunt was plucking at his sleeve, gesturing towards a man standing beside her.

Dizzy, George pulled his hand away from the frame, blinking in shock. “Hm?”

It was Stafford. A few years older than George and richer than Croesus, he was a plain-faced gentleman, neatly turned out in his bottle green coat, with an enviably slim figure and great dignity of manner. By looks, he had already made his bow and was beginning to fear he was about to be cut. “Staffy!” George cried, trying to cover his awkwardness and taking the fellow’s hand. “I was absorbed in contemplation of the, eh — how do you do?”

Lord Stafford smiled in relief. “Your Royal Highness was much missed at yesterday’s opening. We had arranged a fine dinner for you at Willis’ Rooms and hired a band to play in your honour.”

Art, music, a good dinner, and fine company… there was only one thing more a man could want. Faith, it was better than gout, a failed _tête-à-tête,_ and an evening of misery. Stafford was making eyes at Miss Hunt and doubtless drawing his own conclusions regarding George’s indisposition. “And this young lady… will you not grant me the pleasure of an introduction?”

Miss Hunt appeared to be studying Stafford as intently as he was contemplating her, which irritated George. The man was descended from a wool merchant.

“Ah, yes, forgive me. Stafford, this delightful creature is Miss Gwendolyn Hunt.” _All that fuss, only to present her to Staffy!_ What was he doing? Stafford’s brows rose at the word _miss_ , but he still gave her his bow. At this moment, the last thing George wanted was a scene. He glanced back at the portrait of the King and shivered, thinking of the strange lights in the dining room. _Dear God, am I going mad?_ The thought brought another twinge of vertigo vaulting up through his body.

Stafford gave her his bow: “At your service, mademoiselle.” George did not approve of his tone. “I have heard the most _fanciful_ tales about a young lady who has ensnared the Prince of Wales. Did you truly scold Brummell for his debts?”

“She did!” George enthused. “I suppose I ought to count myself fortunate that she has not yet broached the subject of mine.”

“Mr Brummell is young enough that he may yet reform,” Miss Hunt shot him a damned pert look, her voice a trifle shrill as she looked towards the King’s portrait. “While Your Highness has been lectured repeatedly, I am sure, by far more exalted persons than myself.”

“Well, this is a turn-up — a woman urging economy.” Stafford laughed. “You mustn’t chide the prince for his good taste, Miss Hunt. I envy His Royal Highness his passions. When his eye chances upon a thing of beauty it possesses him utterly. I fear I am, by comparison, a mere collector.”

“Tush!” George blushed, uncertain as to whether Stafford’s words were an insult or a compliment. _And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone._ But he felt only half in this world, his other half still locked away with Reynolds’ colours.

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn tried to keep the unease from her face as George Granville Leveson-Gower, Marquess of Stafford, guided the Prince of Wales around the picture gallery. She endeavoured to place the prince’s large body between them, hoping that Lord Stafford would not recognise her in her fancy new clothes and low-brimmed hat.

 _Why did I give the prince a false name in the first place?_ She had grown so accustomed to being called Hunt. It seemed only right to have a new name for the alien circumstances in which she found herself. Yet she was Gwendolyn Tripthorne still. And if the regent discovered that she had lied to him… but there was no reason Lord Stafford should remember a vicar’s daughter.

After all, she hardly remembered _his_ features, only the look of him, prettily turned out for church when men still wore satin coats and powdered wigs. The small world of her childhood had two centres, the river Trent and the Leveson-Gowers of Trentham Hall. People said he was richer than Nathan Rothschild. Stafford called himself a Whig these days, but it was a pale sort of politics for a man who had forced his wife’s Scottish tenants from their homes by setting the thatch alight.

The fires had burned for six days. One of the Scottish members of the Freedom Society had described it to her. A boat had been lost in the black smoke that drifted out to sea, only to be guided back to shore that night by two-hundred and fifty houses ablaze; everywhere people striving to remove the sick and helpless before the fire engulfed them, whilst others were frantic to secure what remained of their possessions. An elderly couple, escaping the flames but too frail to go far, had died of exposure on the road.

At first, Gwendolyn refused to believe it — some part of her still retaining her father’s Staffordshire loyalties — until he took off his gloves and showed her what remained of his burnt hands.

The Prince Regent and Lord Stafford were looking at paintings by a Frenchman named Poussin. She moved to extract herself from the prince’s arm. Did he know what his friend “Staffy” had done? Gwendolyn prayed he did not. The prince pouted at the threat of separation, but she smiled up at him reassuringly, and he gave her a nod and let go. Yet, even if he was ignorant of such things, would he care? Once, she would have said no. Now, looking into his watery blue eyes, she could not tell.

What an insult to the world it was that men such as these should wallow in luxury while others suffered the consequences! Their soft, dissipated world was like the paintings they so admired. Across idyllic landscapes, semi-naked figures were caught in flattering attitudes. Even sorrow was a perfect thing on their bodies. The men were muscular and the women plump. Bacchic revellers clutched horns, tambourines, and each other. It was a pagan Eden. Gods, goddesses, and favoured mortals — their jewel-bright cloaks on the verge of falling away — were bathed in warm yellow light.

As soon as she left the regent’s protection, the other people visiting the gallery turned away, refusing to meet her eye. Only Mr Etty — who was wandering around the room, peering at his pupils’ sketches and murmuring corrections or suggestions in their ears — held her gaze. He made her a bow, a speculative look on his face, but she dropped her gaze to the floor, ashamed.

“Oh, ‘tis very fine — Cephalus rejecting Aurora — from Knight’s collection, yes?” The prince was pointing a fat finger at one of the paintings.

“I believe so, sir.” Lord Stafford nodded. “Last night we were all endeavouring to remember the name of Cephalus’ wife.”

Gwendolyn turned to scrutinise the painting, pretending to take an interest. A woman was clinging to a man’s waist as he turned away from her, staring instead at the likeness of another woman held aloft by a cherub. Beside them, a winged horse stood by and a naked man was asleep on the ground. It seemed like a piece of nonsense.

“Golden Aurora,” the prince began to recite, his deep voice quieting the room, “chasing away the darkness, glimpsed me from the eternal, bright-bowered heights of Mount Hymettus, and bore me away against my will…” He winked at Gwendolyn. “And, though her face has the blush of roses, though she tends the borders of light and shadow, though she sips the dewy nectar, I loved Procris. Procris in my heart: Procris ever on my lips.” 

Gwendolyn’s mouth was dry as he stared at her, apparently quite unconscious of the stares and smiles. Someone stifled a laugh.

“You embarrass me, sir.” Stafford said quietly. “I’m afraid my Ovid is rather rusty.”

 

~*~

 

Roman sunlight glimmered through the glass, warm against the black of George’s coat. Dry, feathery grass brushed against his feet. Some of the models were Italian women with dark, haughty eyes, while others were the white stone of antiquity. He could see their figures flickering like candles beneath the paint. The lines of a vineyard stretched off across the distance and his fingers were black with charcoal.

The next painting was a landscape and, when George’s fingers found its frame, he saw motes of dust caught like stars in a narrow shaft of light. An older woman moved quietly through a dim parlour, dusting the edges of his vision. He pulled back. Stafford was talking, but the red noise of the gallery was like the distant rush of an ancient rill.

 _I must be dreaming._ Every canvas ached with its own song. The creature’s tail whispered across the gilded frames, grown old and cracked with wildflowers. Miss Hunt stood away from him and he reached forward and took her hand. It seemed possible, in that moment, to step out into the Campanian hillside and wander amongst the ancient fields.

“Your Royal Highness,” someone said, and pressed a glass of something into his fingers.

George nodded, gave it a sniff, blinked, and took a sip. The sugars hit his tongue first, demerara and pineapple, then the rum and citrus — a hint of cognac — all swept up in Champagne fizz. “Splendid punch,” he nodded to whoever had given it to him, quaffing it down, trying to clear his head.

“Prinny,” a small voice murmured, “perhaps we should sit… I saw some seats… excuse me, my lord…” Miss Hunt pulled him into the next room.

The paintings seemed like dozens of windows, each opening into a different vista. He was ushered towards a narrow wooden chair, which gave an ominous creak as he sat down. It was, George thought, an odd state of affairs that he should be more concerned about a precarious chair than the impossibilities before him. Miss Hunt looked rather more comfortable in her little seat. “Any more punch?” he asked blearily.   

 

~*~

 

“Are you certain that’s a good idea, Your Highness?” Gwendolyn stared at the regent. He seemed distracted, his pupils strangely dilate, and appeared not to have noticed Kerrick’s return or the way people had stared when Lord Stafford had attempted to raise a toast in his honour and failed to get his attention. _Perhaps he really is as mad as his father?_ The thought made her nervous.

Colonel Bloomfield threaded his way across the room, frowning, looking the prince’s guards up and down before addressing his master: “Sir, perhaps, if you are tired…?”

“No, no…” The regent waved dismissively and smiled at Gwendolyn _._ “I’m not a bit tired — Miss Hunt and I have not yet finished viewing the exhibition. _You_ ,” the prince’s tone grew icy, “were fetching me another drink, I believe?” He held out his empty glass to the colonel.

Bloomfield bowed but the look on his face, turned towards the floor, was rigidly furious. Quickly, Gwendolyn jumped up and plucked the glass from the prince’s fingers. “Why don’t I fetch us both some more punch?”

“Miss Hunt!” the Prince Regent’s chair groaned as he leaned forward to put a hand on her arm. His jowls quivered. Perhaps allowing a lady to fetch the refreshments was not considered gentlemanly behaviour. “There is really no need, I can—”

Gwendolyn smiled and, conscious they were being watched, gave a courtsey. “I will only be a moment, Your Highness.”

She made her way towards the table Kerrick and the prince’s servants had set up — to the delight of everyone present — with two large punch bowls and several trays of sandwiches and pastries. Their excitement did not, however, extend to treating _her_ with any degree of civility. _I must remember the bet,_ she reminded herself miserably. People turned away as she approached. Lord Stafford was refilling his glass and she tried to avoid catching his eye as she placed several treats onto a plate for the prince.

Stafford frowned. “Have we met somewhere before, Miss Hunt?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.” Gwendolyn replied uneasily, taking another pastry.

“I feel certain that we have… where _did_ Prinny find you?”

She didn’t like the way he said the prince’s nickname and she liked his implication even less. “I’m not sure I take your meaning, sir.” She ladled punch into the glass and then fetched one for herself, hoping he did not see her hand tremble. “I would remember being introduced to a man of your reputation.” She tried to balance two full glasses and a plate of food.

“Let me assist you, Miss Hunt.” Stafford’s smile did not reach his eyes.

“No, uh… I could not trouble your lordship.” Glancing up, she tried to catch the eye of the prince’s page, “Kerrick, would you…?”

“Of course,” the page stepped nimbly around the table and took the plate, following Gwendolyn back to the prince, who had abandoned the chair in favour of continuing to admire the art. His attention had been caught by a small, old-fashioned painting of a man in a large hat holding hands with a lady in a green dress. Mr Young was standing next to him.

“My goodness,” the prince muttered, bending over to peer at it carefully with his lorgnette. She heard his corset creak. His eyes were slightly unfocused.

“Your Royal Highness has the most _exquisite_ taste.” Young nodded. “It was liberated from Joseph Bonaparte’s baggage after the battle of Vitoria. We have it on loan, but I’m told the owner is looking to sell. A colonel on half-pay, I understand. Shall I inform him of Your Royal Highness’ interest?”

“Your Highness?” Gwendolyn held out the glass of punch.

“La — yes, thank you, my dear…” he took it as though lost in a dream, still absorbed by the picture. She wasn’t sure he’d heard anything the fawning gallery keeper had said.

It was only when Kerrick passed her the food she’d acquired for the prince that Gwendolyn realised she’d piled six sweets onto the small plate. The balls of pastry shone with a golden glaze. Most people had only taken one or two. Just because everyone else indulged his ridiculous appetite, it didn’t mean that Gwendolyn should! Aside from the obvious waste, it couldn’t benefit anyone to be such a glutton; certainly, the overstuffed prince didn’t need the encouragement. The man had gout. She ought to return at least half to the table, but putting the pastries back would look silly.

The prince had not noticed the plate, sipping the drink she’d brought as he continued to examine the painting. What was wrong with him? She took a sip of her own. It was very sweet and her stomach clenched as she imagined taking one of the pastries and putting it to his mouth, remembering that profligate supper — the crumbs of the last meringue on his fleshy lips and his moan of helpless pleasure. It felt as though her wicked thoughts must be visible to everyone. Gwendolyn schooled her expression, finding it difficult to speak. “I — uh, perhaps…?” She refused to blush over such a thing!

He glanced towards her and then down at the plate she was holding. Their eyes met and one corner of his mouth quirked upwards into a crooked smile. “My _dear_ ,” he murmured appreciatively, pulling off one glove (a difficult task while still holding his glass), and reaching for a pastry. Gwendolyn, daunted by his stare, resisted the impulse to yank the plate away from him.

But the plump fingers stopped inches from the pastries, curling into a fist and hovering awkwardly in the air. “Ah, well…” He glanced around the crowded gallery and his hand fell away. “Have you looked at this van Eyck? Fascinating composition, such a delicate touch the man had, I’m _most_ tempted to acquire it…”     

He was embarrassed. Gwendolyn took a gulp of sweet punch, watching the prince’s pale hand flutter uneasily along the broad lines of his stays, not knowing whether she should be pleased or upset. Kerrick relieved them of their empty glasses. Obviously, he was much more comfortable indulging his selfishness in private. A swill-tub like him  _ought_ to be embarrassed! Yet she felt unaccountably thwarted, as though his shame was somehow an insult.

She picked up one of the sticky pastries. “I’ve never tasted one of these before.” Slowly, she raised it to her lips, watching him carefully. “Do you know what it’s called?”

The prince’s grey eyes widened and the corners of his mouth grew tight. “Oh — ‘tis Carême’s _chou_ _à la crème_ , quite delectable—”

She bit down, crunching through caramel glaze into rose-water custard. The way he stared as she licked her upper lip, she might have been taking off her dress.

Prinny continued to talk, watching her avidly: “…He was likely intending to make a tower of them for supper tonight. La, he’ll be so upset we’ve requisitioned the blocks of his architecture — calls it a _croque en bouche_ and dresses the whole thing in spun sugar…” He gave a little hum of frustration as Gwendolyn finished the pastry. “'Tis quite splendid… does it with candied chestnuts and oranges too..."

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked quietly, offering him the plate again.  _What am I doing?_   

His chin wobbled in its immaculate nest of white linen and the look he gave her was almost pleading. “Perhaps… a little…” he admitted. After a moment of hesitation, he took a pastry and, in one eager motion, put the entire thing into his mouth. “Mmph,” he closed his eyes as he swallowed, giving her a sensuous grin before taking another. “I _do_ seem to be a bit peckish …” After that, it was all over for the remaining three, which Gwendolyn watched disappear one by one down the prince’s padded gullet.

“You have,” she blushed, “some custard on your cheek.” Without thinking, she reached up and wiped it carefully away with her fingers, only conscious of how intimate the action was when she heard a gasp. She yanked her hand back, mortified. 

“It’s snowing!” someone shouted and suddenly everything was drowned out in a great chatter and turning of heads.

They all spilled out onto the street, staring at the sky and reaching their hands upwards in childish astonishment. The rain had turned to white dust, falling like fine flour through a sieve. It swirled in the wind, drifting under horses’ hooves, and stuck to the mud like cotton flowers. The prince laughed in disbelief, catching a piece between his fingers. “Snow in September — ‘tis extraordinary!” Flecks of white caught in his brown wig and scattered across the wide shoulders of his black coat, while his breath fogged on the air.

“Nonsense,” the colonel replied, “merely a few hail stones…”

But it was _not_ hail, Gwendolyn could tell. She shivered. It was gentle death, famine floating on the air, come to blacken whatever remained of the harvest and rot the potatoes in the ground.


	8. Pouding à la Nesselrode

_Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries;_

_Should there come famine_

_Still plenty to cram in_

_You shall always have, my dear Lord of the Stanneries!_

_Brisk let us revel, while revel we may;_

_For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,_

_And then people get fat,_

_And infirm, and — all that,_

_And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,_

_That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits._

 

~ Horace, Ode 11. Lib. 2, “freely translated by George P.”

It was an ugly, patchwork sort of snow, piling up in grubby banks, already half-melted against the dim green of the Prince Regent’s gardens. The ornamental lake was a fallen circle of dark grey sky, above which the tall, bright windows of Carlton House were being doused, one by one, like candles. It was just possible to make out the shadows of footmen at work loosening tassels, sealing away the premature darkness behind heavy draperies.

Gwendolyn shoved her hands deeper into the sable muff, lacing her gloved fingers together beneath the heavy fur, as she walked slowly across the grass. The new boots were beginning to rub, despite their earlier comfort, and the icy wind made her shiver. Yet she was reluctant to go inside. Here, there was space to think, to breathe. Her breath smoked in the frigid air. _I am here_ , it proclaimed. _I am alive._

The prince had been distant and unfocused all the way back from the gallery, but his hands had taken hers with an ease that was becoming unsettling. _Later,_ they said, _later._ Gwendolyn could not help but wonder if the man was indeed labouring under a hereditary sentence of madness. What a strange day it had been!

The snow began to fall again, thicker in the early evening dark, and she returned to her room and asked for a bath, removing her damp clothes in front of the fire. The luxuries of the Pall Mall mansion still held the power to astonish: the vast bronze tub brought for her, as much hot water as she liked, and scented oils to perfume her skin. It was a relief to free her sticky, blistered feet. They stung as she climbed into the steaming water. And, lying half-submerged in a silk bathing smock, she tried to imagine what it must be like to always possess such conveniences, even as she felt ashamed of them. Tomorrow, she would visit Anne to remember who she was and care for what she had left. The prince had promised to help.

Gwendolyn whispered a prayer that the night’s chill might not claim any lives – the first true prayer she had uttered since Thomas’ funeral — but why should the Lord heed a sinful woman who doubted His existence? Even if every poor soul survived the unseasonal cold, the shortage of food would surely see to so many in the months to come. How could a deity with any pretensions to mercy visit such misfortune on those already in such distress? Some blamed Bonaparte for the strange weather, said he’d laid a curse on England as his revenge for Waterloo, and it made as much sense as anything else she’d heard.

She closed her eyes and sank under the warm water, not knowing how to fathom any of it. The only thing she knew was that her wager with the Prince Regent was more important than ever.

 

~*~

 

He surfaced as though from drowning, his heart a gallop, choked with tears instead of seawater. George clutched at his pillows, fearing they would dissolve beneath him, but the silk squabs – plump with feathers and scented with lavender and huile antique – held. _It was only a dream_. He sighed, turning over a cushion to press his face into its cool underside, and willed his body to relax into the nest of comfortable darkness.

There had been a woman… luminous in the moonlight. George could not conjure her face, only the way her chin had tilted, coy behind her fan, as she leaned against a balcony. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the canopy, overcome by a desire to grasp the beauty’s vanished features. Laughter and cheers had mingled with the strains of an orchestra, but he couldn’t recall the tune… only three red eyes in a swaying sea of bluebells and an ivory fan striking him with the force of a pugilist’s fist. Her lovely face dwindled to a spec of reflected light, merging with the old nightmare: an endless fall into an abyssal sky, tumbling upward, longing for nothing but the mercy of impact...     

George panted, edging the heavy curtains aside, his heart beating out the remnants of his alarm. But his bedchamber was its familiar self, the blue brocade darkened to lilac in the dim firelight. He shuddered, peering at the clock, feeling groggy as a sailor. The golden dial blurred into the bronze figures seated on either side of it. He rubbed his eyes. It was almost half-eight – the hour of introductions and one’s first glass of champagne punch – yet it might have been the middle of the night. He barely recalled collapsing into bed, his senses spinning and pain pulsing behind his eyes, but his valet must have taken his shoes and eased him out of his clothes. At least the headache had gone and with it, hopefully, the afternoon’s malaise.

The odd turns frightened him. _I am not mad_. Mad was talking at a gallop to anyone who’d listen and mistaking a tree for the King of Prussia. Could they really be the cost of curing his gout? That mirror was supposed to be a damned superstition, a mere fancy! No, no… these visions held no such power. Yet they were curious — flights into a beautiful unknown. If he were a poet, he might boast about such things and only add to his reputation, but a prince could little afford such rumours. He dreaded the brutal mad-doctors who had tortured his father. His damned brother, Ernest, already went about saying George was mad, for all he denied it to his face.

Clove tea and curacao restored his equilibrium a little, but he had no wish to go out. Such fuss sat ill with him after the debacle at the gallery. Besides, there was little choice of society in London at this time of year and he was not required to visit Manchester Square for amusement. He was hosting a small party himself tomorrow night. That would be friends enough for his present mood. Meantime, an evening of kisses and confections with his present inamorata would suit him admirably.

 _Miss Hunt… how lovely she was._ After today’s ordeal he had a right to indulge. Yet he knew he made a poor chevalier. _I am Prince Regent and I could be King any day now. Any woman ought to count herself fortunate to be a favourite of mine._ But Miss Hunt was an idealist — the sort who didn’t give a fig for rank. That was rather the point, was it not? And other men had been at the gallery, thinner men… rich old Stafford… even Etty… a girl might consider it romantic to become an artist’s muse. His little game had gotten quite out of hand. He should never have asked her to join him, but having done so… ah, what a gentle, courageous, little creature! Perhaps he ought to be bled to present her with a suitably lovelorn complexion? George settled back against his pillows with a sigh, suddenly feeling that she had his measure whilst he had succeeded in unravelling only the smallest part of her mystery.

 

~*~

 

When the page knocked on Gwendolyn’s door, she had already donned the yellow gown and bundled her damp hair away under a cap — half expecting the prince’s summons — although she left putting on the too-tight slippers until it was certain they would be required. Once, she had longed for beautiful dresses like the ladies who sat in the front pews at church. But now such fripperies seemed childish — too much a part of the world she had decided to leave behind. A large green vase, boasting gilded swan’s head handles, now displayed the orchids the prince had given her. Gwendolyn sighed. The regent would probably be only too happy to squander more of the nation’s taxes buying her dozens of silk slippers. At least the horrid things pained her toes and not her blistered heels.

She had kept the maids at a distance all week, uncomfortable being touched and waited on by strangers. But the prince appeared to depend entirely on his servants and on Tom Kerrick in particular. She glanced at the page. He moved stiffly, almost like a soldier in his blue and gold jacket. His freckled face was bland but there were shadows under his hazel eyes. He was the page chosen to accompany them to the British Institution, who had helped his drunken master up the stairs, attended him when he was stricken with the gout, and now the one trusted to escort her to the prince. If anyone was in a position tell her the truth about the regent’s strange behaviour, it was Kerrick.

Gwendolyn wondered how best to approach the subject as they walked. Then, recalling the blow he had dealt her, she hid a smirk and then put on a show of outrage: “You _kicked_ me, sir!”

“My apologies, Miss Hunt.” He didn’t look particularly sorry.

“What would the prince say if I informed him that you attacked a lady?”

The page swallowed, biting his lip. “Please understand, I… I meant only to remind you to afford His Royal Highness some comfort in his distress…”  

A distress brought about by a reminder of the prince’s own callous betrayal of his wife! Gwendolyn was quite prepared to believe that His Highness was subject to fits on the rare occasions he was gainsaid. Maybe kings and princes only went mad because their high station loosened their senses — ordinary people weren’t in a position to sustain such delusions. “Does it happen often?”

“I… cannot say.”

“Rather, you _won’t._ And you the one who claimed he needed assistance!”

 _“Miss, lower your tone!”_ Kerrick hissed, glancing over his shoulder towards the household guards standing at attention along the lavish corridor.

“Well?” Gwendolyn whispered.

Kerrick shook his head. “I—”

“I _will_ tell him you kicked me,” she lied.

The page glared at her. “According to his doctors, it is only a slight malady of the nerves.”

“Could you explain…?”

There was a mixture of embarrassment and sadness in the page’s eyes. “His Royal Highness has a… a delicate equilibrium… easily overset by stress or uncertainty. I know many think it only the result of a — a youthful temperament, but I believe it is… quite the reverse. During these times… the support of a… companion is—”

Lord, was he accustomed to luring women into his master’s bed? “And you procure these _companions_ , do you?”

Kerrick’s ears reddened. “No, you — _no_ , I… it is only that the… ladies of the ton… do not always… Miss Hunt, you have seen how… how your council might assist him… and you do not appear to find your situation unpleasant—”

Gwendolyn held up a hand, blushing herself, alarmed at the turn in their conversation. “I beg you not to speculate further, sir!”

He bowed his head. “Yes, miss.”

They finished their walk in awkward silence. Gwendolyn stared at the delicate silver bows on her slippers. _You do not appear to find your situation unpleasant._ The words roiled in her gut and trembled up her spine. They made her want to kick off the wretched slippers and bolt back to her room. The distant sound of a dainty, claustrophobic melody played on a violoncello carried through the fine white and gold doors. _I’m your mistress until I win the bet._ That was what she had said. But what would it mean for tonight? She bit her lip. It would not do to deceive herself. A late night invitation from a prince... perhaps he would honour their bargain and perhaps he would not but, either way, it could only end badly for her. When the page opened the door, she felt as though she was walking into the lair of a beast.

 

~*~

 

It was a sonata by Benedetto Marcello, a gentle, lilting thing — one of the pieces George had lingered over as a boy. A hundred afternoons blurred into one as he played: the low ceiling and plain furnishings that so delighted his miserly father; his patient tutor, Crosdill, giving him direction. _And has Your Royal Highness practiced since our last lesson?_ The musician’s quiet disappointment when George’s playing showed his answer to be a lie had been more effective than any rod.

Echoes of guests and servants ghosted through the drawing room. A paintbrush flickered, lacquering the figure on the Chinese clock. The cut glass of the chandelier shimmered with past delights and, on the wall opposite George, 15th century peasants danced outside Teniers’ painted inn. Men’s shirts and women’s aprons caught the light. Even the blue and gold carpet seemed to bleed strange emotions when he gazed at it overlong. He could hear the noise of a piper, and feel nails cut into his palms as he tried to conceal his rage at being forced to sell his family treasures in an English auction house…

George closed his eyes, trying to cast off the thoughts that were not his own. The strings wore on the soft fingertips of his left hand (he had not practised in some months), but he did not mind the discomfort. A sore hand was no phantom. Playing from memory, he fancied his bow a sword, banishing illusion with its smooth back and forth.

Gwendolyn Hunt peered around the door like a nervous child before giving a lady’s courtsey (he suspected she had been practising), her fetching tresses sadly hidden under a cap tied with a bright ribbon. A charming distraction, she contained no echo, no vision but her beauty. He ought to commission a portrait of her in that burnished silk, without the ghastly cap, a cream shawl slipping off one delicate shoulder. Lawrence would do wonders with those lustrous eyes.

He gave her a nod and continued to play, watching her take in the assortment of rose satin armchairs and sofas. The girl was so terribly thin, but that would change — he would see to it. That seductive Jezebel, Frances Villiers, had been a scrawny thing when they first became intimate. All of George’s amours softened: their breasts and thighs thickening as they shared his bed. A shiver of arousal flickered across his groin. Miss Hunt moved to the couch opposite, then — ah! — a small smile graced her lips, and she turned to curl up beside him. _Bless the little damsel…_

He thought he’d had his fill of dainty young creatures, whispering behind their fans, but hadn’t Maria been about Miss Hunt’s age when he first saw her… faith, had it truly been so long ago? He finished the sonata and paused as she brushed against his side. Those enigmatic, half-closed eyes made him anxious to please and he began one of Martini’s romances: all warm longing and plaintive vibrato. The great Haydn himself had called him a tolerable cellist — there was no reason to be afraid. God, but he wanted to hear her once more call him a handsome prince!

 

~*~

 

The piece was vaguely familiar: a love song. Gwendolyn sat beside the Prince Regent, careful not to jar his elbow as she removed her uncomfortable slippers. A fire danced in the black and giltwood hearth, setting its golden grille aglow. The jewels on the prince’s fingers caught the light as he played. A glass of dark liquor and dish of chocolate conserves sat on a side-table. Kerrick stood by the door.

The prince wore another immense banyan, as English as the last was Oriental, double-breasted, ruched at the shoulders, and made entirely of glossy white felt. Turkish slippers, rich with embroidered flowers, peeped from under its hem. As always, his fat neck was carefully concealed in an elaborate linen carapace. Even the violoncello had been intricately painted with feathers and filigree, so that no one could be in any doubt as to the instrument’s owner. Ornament upon ornament. When the last note gave way, she applauded.

“Ah, pish tush!” The prince’s face pinked with pleasure. If there was much about the regent that recalled a spoiled boy, it was impossible to deny the man also possessed a child’s joy as he stood to make her a delighted bow. She grinned up at him. Something had changed, broken a barrier she could not name. Her smile fell away. In another world, she and this man would both be dead.

The regent set aside his instrument and resumed his seat, pulling her onto his lap. “What is it?” he tilted his head to the side so that their noses touched, his face shadowed by her own, half-hidden from the light of the chandelier. A man had shot the last prime minister. It had seemed possible for a woman to kill the Prince Regent. Perhaps that woman, separated from Gwendolyn by a week that felt like an ocean, had been mad to think the only way to assuage her grief was with more death. Those grey eyes, gentle and curious, were far too close. She could never tell him.

“You… are very accomplished,” she stuttered out. “I… I am glad to see you are recovered, Your H—” 

“Prinny,” he corrected her tenderly, brushing aside her concern for his health and leaning in for a kiss. It tasted of chocolate, sugared orange, and cloves. But she held her mouth tight, unable to relax into the embrace. He pulled back, quizzical. A beringed hand traced the line of her jaw. “So coy, _mon_ _petit chou…?_ ”

Gwendolyn tucked her face into the curve of his large shoulder, unable to look at him, breathing in his citrus perfume. _You do not appear to find your situation unpleasant._ She shivered as gentle kisses found the side of her throat. He seemed to intuit her feelings, even though she barely grasped them herself. The snowy material was slippery against her fingers. “Is it rabbit fur?”

A lazy smile played about those full lips. “Beaver — from Hudson’s Bay — fine stuff, no?”

“Very,” Gwendolyn agreed, hardly knowing what she said, pushing aside the white felt to reveal a pretty lilac waistcoat fastened tightly over the prince’s stays. But while the lacing diminished his waist, it made his lower half look round as a pear, his pampered hips and backside precariously buttoned into the overfull breeches. She ran her fingers across the superfine fabric — finding the line where corsetry gave way to blubber — and began to tickle him.

“I… ah-ha… my dear!” He swatted at her hands, attempting to tug the banyan closed. But, before he managed to pull it shut, she slid her hands between the waistcoat and gown, pleased by his embarrassment, and continued to prod and tickle. Panting — his fat cheeks tinged scarlet — he convulsed in shallow gasps of stifled laughter. “Oh — _stop_ , la…!” There was a thud as one of his slippers fell away. The game was irresistible. “Ah, s-stop — _damme_ , a-ah, Gwinnie, _please_ …!”

Reluctantly, she took pity on him, playfully kissing his nose, remembering last night’s spill of fub under her fingers. “It must be tiresome to wear such tight stays.”

The prince contrived to sound as though such considerations were far beneath his royal notice: “Oh… my doctors wish me to give them up.” He tugged a lace handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “Naturally, they know _nothing_ of fashion.”

“Of course,” Gwendolyn agreed, amused by his sensitivity until she noticed he wouldn’t meet her gaze. She picked at his waistcoat buttons. “Your clothes are always so elegant.”

But there was no answering puff of self-regard. Instead, he shot her a haughty look. “Do be careful, my dear,” he drawled, “or I’ll think you desire me to abandon our little wager.”

 _What did he mean?_ All her confidence melted away. “You… you’ve no cause to threaten such a thing!” Was this because she mentioned his stays? Honestly! “If… if anything, you owe me a forfeit!”

The regent raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “What forfeit?”

She tried to smile through her fear and pretend she cared as little about the outcome of their bet as he did. “Your Highness promised that our wager would be a _private_ one that would not damage my reputation... but everyone will talk of what happened at the picture gallery. So, as you have broken our terms, what do you propose to offer me in compensation?” The words came out like lines from a play, as though they did not belong to her at all.

The large blue eyes stared at her in complete astonishment. Gwendolyn held her breath. The prince blinked, and she thought he would push her away, but then a chuckle escaped his lips and he kissed her, suddenly all gallantry. “La, my love, but you do like to keep a man on his toes!” He stroked her cheek — affecting carelessness — before picking up his glass and swirling the dark liquor. “You are right, of course — yes, yes — I shall make amends, my charming Gwendolyn, never fear!” _He’s a better actor than I am._ What was he thinking? It unnerved her that she couldn’t tell. “You must give me leisure to consider a suitable forfeit. Meantime, I’ve a notion we ought to have a little treat by the fire, ‘tis snowing, after all… what say you?”

“I… certainly.” _A little treat._ Gwendolyn’s innards did an uneasy somersault. She had every confidence it would be no such thing. Such ridiculous vanity even as he proposed to add to his bulk! At least supper would distract the Pig of Pall Mall from ending their wager. He wafted a hand towards Kerrick, who bowed and fetched half a dozen footmen. Two were carrying a table, which they set down and covered with white linen. Then the others moved forward, setting down dishes and platters. One was holding a tall vase of roses. Gwendolyn wondered what would have happened if she had declined the prince’s suggestion.

Prinny smiled as the servants bowed and departed, leaving only the royal page behind. She fought the urge to slap her rotund protector, who continued to sip his drink — all innocence — as though nothing disagreeable had ever passed between them. There were ices, genoises, and mousses (all set like little flowers), rout cakes, dipping wafers, slices of orange, a dish of strawberries, apricot tart, cheesecakes, a small pyramid of the choux pastries from this afternoon, and in the centre–

“Nesselrode pudding!” he exclaimed, clapping his plump hands. “Miss Hunt, we shall be in paradise!” Maybe he was only what he seemed: a spoiled old voluptuary with no thoughts in his head but his own pleasure.

She slid off his lap, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Shall I bring us both a dish?”

The prince reached for a chocolate conserve, one fat finger tracing the rim of the silver bowl. “Dearest Gwendolyn, you aren’t here to fetch and carry.” He plucked a sweet, appearing entirely disinclined to rise from his comfortable position on the pink satin cushions. “I realise you feel a most natural deference towards your prince,” she watched his eyelids droop with satisfaction as the conserve disappeared into his mouth, “but I assure you, as my guest, ‘tis quite–”

“Your Highness, no!” _Natural deference!_ She almost laughed. “That is, I understand – it’s only that I… I should _like_ to…” Her gaze drifted towards the page, who was carefully decanting several large bottles over a side table. Doubtless he was expected to do all the fetching and carrying the prince required. “And, since I don’t mind, perhaps Mr Kerrick could withdraw?” A servant was no chaperone and she didn’t want a witness to her shame.

“Well, if you insist, my dear…” The prince’s eyes followed her gaze. “You heard her, lad. Run along, will you? We’ll serve ourselves — as though we were at a ball, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” Kerrick bowed and backed out of the room.

When the door shut behind him, Gwendolyn wondered why she thought it would be a relief to be alone with the Prince Regent. Instead, she felt on the edge of panic, walking slowly towards the table of desserts, grateful that no one could see her face. _What has this gluttonous libertine done to me?_ She stared at the stack of little serving dishes, and then at the iced centrepiece the prince was so keen to try. The pudding looked creamy, filled with shards of what might be nuts or dried fruit, and was beautifully moulded to look like a Moorish castle. If the regent truly intended to eat all of this, he would surely burst his oh-so-fashionable stays. The thought of his embarrassment made Gwendolyn’s insides roll and her cheeks burn. It was only what the fat popinjay deserved! The last time she and the prince had shared such a supper, Gwendolyn had drunk several glasses of… well, she did not recall its name, but it had certainly been strong, and now she was entirely sober and still contemplating — Lord, what _was_ she contemplating?

“Are you well, my sweet?” the prince called.

He ought to have a higher voice. Something effeminate to match his dandy airs. But it was like his ‘cello, deep and dulcet, murmuring across her skin. _How long have I been standing here idle?_

“A… a moment!” Instead of destroying the castle, she quickly spooned strawberries, oranges, and ices into a moat around the frozen edifice. Pushing aside the notion that it was herself she indulged, she lifted the entire platter with shaking fingers. 

 

~*~

 

George gasped, a blush spreading slowly across his cheeks, as Miss Hunt placed the liberally ornamented centrepiece in his lap, mischief glinting in her dark eyes. He shifted uncomfortably, his corset pressing his anxious stomach, and searched her countenance for any trace of a sneer. Between the fire and the chandelier the room felt devilish hot _._ “Not enough?” she teased. George set aside his glass of sherry, about to protest, when the vixen kissed his cheek and passed him a spoon, her fingers playing affectionately across his back.

He sighed, embroiled in the delightful aroma of vanilla and maraschino. “You _mustn’t_ joke, my dear, not about dessert…” Thickly frozen chestnut cream mingled in his mouth with nuts glazed in buttery brandy and sour cherries so soaked in sugar that their brittle skins snapped like pastilles kept too long on the tongue whilst their flesh oozed boozy spice. “This dish was created by Carême at the Congress of Vienna in honour of Count Nesselrode — I simply _cannot_ wait until the master creates such a masterpiece in _my_ honour… mm…”

Miss Hunt had garnished the sublime creation with slivers of orange, hothouse strawberries, and cinnamon and bergamot ices. George tried a strawberry. It was a little too fibrous for his taste, but he had no doubt it was the best on offer at this time of year. The ices, on the other hand, were admirable. He brought a spoonful to his companion’s lips. “Won’t you tell me something of yourself?” he asked softly, watching her swallow and pick up a slice of orange. He hated quarrels. “I long to know _everything_ about my lovely Gwendolyn…”

“Your Highness knows, I—”

“I’ll have none of your ordinary facts,” he chided her between mouthfuls, unable to resist the combination of alcoholic cherries and chestnut cream for more than a sentence or two of conversation. Perhaps she was embarrassed to speak of common things with a prince? The last thing he wished to do was make her uncomfortable. “Tell me… what you dreamed of as a child.”

She was silent for a moment, surprised by the question, taking a strawberry with a thoughtful expression. “I’m not certain, a… a flying thing, perhaps…? Something that could go anywhere it pleased. I would run across the field, flapping my arms… as though speed alone could turn them into wings…”

George had no difficulty imagining a dark-haired girl racing through long grass, ribbons and skirts streaming behind her, jumping and waving, reaching for the horizon beyond the treeline. “How charming, we must go for a drive — I can teach you a thing or two about speed, by God!”

“Truly?” The dear creature smiled, spooning cinnamon ice between her pink lips, and George felt giddy at the sight.

“Oh, yes!” he laughed, leaning across to give her a kiss. Both their tongues were fragrant with melted sweets. “I set the record from Brighton to London and back in a phaeton and four. Ten hours — splendid pace!”

“Might a Prince Regent drive himself?” She scraped up the last of the pudding and lifted it to his mouth.

“He might drive a lady,” George murmured, wrapping his lips around the delectable offering. He swallowed and kissed her again, delighted by her shivering sigh. How enjoyable it would be to take her to his cottage orné in Windsor Park and drive his beloved Hanoverian Creams for her pleasure. How could he think of calling off their wager? She was a high-spirited thing, that was all, and the better for it.

“And what of you?” she asked. “What do young princes dream — of being king, I suppose?”

 _I wanted to be a soldier._ The words came to the tip of his tongue, but then he imagined the incredulous smile that might spill across those sweet features at hearing a portly old gentleman with shattered nerves confess to dreams of military glory. The shame — _the degrading mockery!_ — of being forbidden even the smallest real duty, a toy colonel permitted only reviews, parades, and regimental dinners, while the great conflicts of the age enfolded across the sea. _Useless.._. It crystallised sharply inside him, trapped like the morbid humours that afflicted his joints; each tearful parting – from his first separation from dear Fred to watching his beloved dragoons embark for Spain without him – seemed to steal away more hope than he could bear.

George had humbled himself, again and again; he had _begged_ the King to let him go. Under anyone’s command, at whatever rank, advised by whomever his father saw fit… after all, he had so many brothers to take his place if he perished. The papers scoffed when he made himself a field marshal, but he had been the oldest colonel in the service, denied promotion by the King’s express command. _Your brothers are soldiers because that is their place, wot! Yours is a higher duty — compose yourself, sir!_ His father might as well have written the lampoons himself. He put a hand over his face, feeling the tears well behind his eyes. “Oh — ah — king. Yes, I suppose…”

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn could tell the prince was lying, but she did not have the heart to challenge him. Whatever his youthful dreams had been, it was painfully evident they had not come to pass. Instead of pressing him, she stood and fetched the fruit tart. He gave her a tired but appreciative smile as she set it down between them and cut a slice. “Do you know Lord Stafford well?” she asked.

“Not especially,” he replied with a sigh as she passed him a large piece. “Mm, if only Alvanley were here, he would _die_ for so fine an apricot tart… as for Staffy, we’ve similar taste in pictures. I cannot _abide_ his younger brother — the only worthwhile thing _he’s_ ever done is admire Lady Bessborough — but Stafford’s a rather dull show… why d’you ask?”

Lord Stafford had remembered her, perhaps not fully, but he knew her face. How long would it take him to remember? No, he had made his assumptions clear… there was surely no reason he would think of a girl from Trentham. She longed to ask how much the prince knew of Stafford’s actions. “I… I didn’t like him very much.”

“Then we shan’t mention him a’tall, m’dear!” The prince beamed and applied himself to another generous serving of apricot pastry.  Perhaps he was aware of Stafford’s cruelties, for he seemed inordinately pleased by her low opinion of the man. The sofa groaned as he shifted his weight and smoothed his lilac waistcoat. “Well, you’ve spent a week in my home, what is your view of it now? Still, eh... too big? You know, some have told me these interiors are more elegant than anything they’ve seen on the continent…”

He could end their bet as easily as he’d made it — so much depended upon Gwendolyn’s answer! She took a slice of tart, taking her time to devise a suitable reply. “No, it is… most sumptuous, but I have simple tastes…” Pastry flaked in all directions, topped by thick apricots, honeyed syrup, and almond cream. She wiped her mouth, reluctant to lie. “I confess, I find so very grand a house quite… beyond my ability to describe.”

“Rot!” he exclaimed, shoving her playfully. “Now, look here…!” His stays creaked as he eased his bulk off the sofa and onto the fleur-de-lis carpet, patting the space beside him. “Come, sit by me.”

“Prinny!” Gwendolyn gasped, giggling at the roly-poly picture he made on the floor, receiving a royal frown as she arranged herself awkwardly beside him.

“I hereby revoke your licence to call me such! ‘Tis Royal Highness to you — you philistine!” he teased, kissing her cheek. “Lie down,” he whispered, “on your back.”

Gwendolyn froze, as tense as a hare. Was _this_ to be his revenge for offending him? If he thrust himself upon her there would be no witness, no one to come to her aid. In such a position, his weight alone would suffice to keep her pinned.  

The prince sighed and pursed his lips, impatient. “Do as I say, you suspicious hussy — come, come!”

“Why?” she asked, still staring. _When did I come to trust him?_ Had she forgotten his arrogant attempt to bring her to his bed on that first day? Did he truly expect this of her…?

He shook his head, exasperated. “Never mind _why_ — hands over your eyes — I insist!”

She lay back on the velvet carpet, fighting the urge to flee. He… he _wouldn’t._ He _promised_ her that he wouldn’t — those were the terms of the wager and she could not risk him calling it off. Gwendolyn stared anxiously into the red-dark of her fingers, listening for any rustle of his voluminous robe.

“Yes… no peeking until my say-so… now, think of a field, you lie in the long grass…” His deep voice was the only sound she could hear above the ticking of a clock and the gentle whisper of the fire. “There’s a perfect sky above you and you think to yourself how all is harmony, but then — ah! — the shade moves…”

Just as her eyes had grown used to the darkness, the prince tugged at her wrist, letting in a blurred crack of light. Then, gradually, he pulled her other hand away, leaving her squinting at a brilliant waterfall of light and glass.

“Now, tell me what you see.”

From the carpet, the room yielded a different, peculiar view: gilded furniture legs, exquisitely carved with little flowers, cast flickering shadows on the carpet, whilst delicate ormolu cabinets and side-tables — covered in beautiful trinketry — seemed giant things. The ceiling was decorated with the same cream and gold filigree as the tall doors. A glittering lustre illuminated the circle of painted sky from which it hung, surrounded by golden medallions and curlicues. Rose brocade and white silk, fringed with gold, were lavished everywhere in strange contrast with paintings of simple, old-fashioned country scenes. A smiling mandarin lounged on the mantle, smoking a pipe.

Gwendolyn tried to see the room as the Prince Regent saw it: a beautiful fantasy with no notion of cost. “I… it’s like a garden of pink and gold… even the ceiling… drapes trussed like garlands on a trellis… a garden inside a jewellery box.”

“Oh, I _like_ that!” The prince’s grin dimpled. “You know what Nero said when they built him his golden house on the ashes of Rome’s great fire?”

She shook her head, sitting up and smoothing her dress, amazed that he would invite such a comparison.

“At last I have begun to live like a man. What a thing to say, eh? I don’t believe it was the marble and gold that made him say it, but the notion that he’d created a thing of beauty entirely his own…”

“But the expense…!”

“Expense fiddlesticks!” The regent turned up his nose, his lower lip drooping as he waved a hand at the luxurious furnishings. “No one would create anything splendid if all one did was prattle about cost…”

It was obvious that arguing with him about his extravagance was hopeless, so Gwendolyn tried a different tactic, reaching out to touch his knee. “Yet it hasn’t made you happy.”

His expression softened as he lay down beside her. “Oh, Gwen… I’ve been happy… happier than you, I dare say, hm?” Sprawled on the carpet in his white banyan, the tender folds of his neck spilling out of his loosened cravat, he resembled nothing so much as an overfed feline. “Let’s not have any of that sort of talk, my sweet, or you shall have me in tears.”

Gwendolyn wondered that she had thought this man capable of forcing himself on her. He was likely too coddled a creature to consider violence to achieve his ends. He’d purchased her continued attendance with a wager. _Some vixens like romance, some like jewels, and some like politics._ He wanted her to come to him. She leaned over to pet his stomach as though he were indeed a lazy tom, amused by the way he winced as she pressed her hand against his well-corseted waist.

 

~*~

 

“These Genovese sponges are so pretty,” Miss Hunt smiled as she offered one to George. The little cakes were, indeed, very pretty and they tasted even better. Ornamented with Chantilly cream and layered with pistachios and raspberry jam, they were quite impossible to resist. His companion had laid out a very pleasant little picnic by the fire. He moaned as she offered him another, paralysed by the pleasure of her caress, his middle caught in a press of warm fingers that sapped his desire to move, even as they pained him.

He tried to take a deep breath, tugging at his waistcoat in frustration, but the merciless contraption would not give. There was a crunch as Miss Hunt bit into the puff pastry that surrounded what looked like… _faith, was that cheesecake?_ They looked delectable, but another bite would surely kill him. The angel leaned over and kissed him, her fingers spidering across his belly, rubbing circles into his flesh, making him quiver in pain and arousal. She offered him one, wafting the scent of buttery lemon under his nose, and he near whimpered.  

George pushed himself upright with a grunt and leaned uncomfortably against the sofa, wrapping the banyan over his straining waistcoat to present a more dignified picture. One of the buttons was missing – when had that happened? The felted gown was hot to the touch. Turning to avail himself of another bumper of brown sherry, he found a dish of cheesecake placed in front of him. His stomach protested, but the rich confection bamboozled his senses. Just sweet enough, with that perfect touch of sugared lemon… la, what excruciating bliss! And there was the last of the apricot tart… it only made sense to finish it…

George blushed as the lady’s fingers stroked the underside of his gut. Their kiss mixed languid, fleshy heat with _crème frangipani,_ lemon curd, and the flecks of pastry on their lips. He pulled at her cap, releasing a mess of oiled black curls. “Prinny,” she whispered, her narrow face golden in the firelight, “shall I loosen your stays?”

The urge to cast up his account hit his stomach and he pulled back, feeling faint, one hand over his mouth, blood pulsing in his ears. Another lilac button flew away at her touch. “No, no…” he insisted weakly, “‘tis perfectly–”

She kissed him and drew his banyan away from his shoulders. He pressed his face into her hair, anxiety mixing with jasmine pomatum, as the remaining buttons fled their holes like little gasps of breath. “Just let me… oh.” Dark eyes stared at the complex working of laces, straps, and whalebone that encircled George’s waist.

The edges of the corset bulged. No one was supposed to see this, least of all Miss Hunt with her youthful sensibilities. He would die if she laughed. _Poor Prinny is growing fatter by the day,_ _how his stays creak!_ It wasn’t fair — was he not everything a prince ought to be? “Damn you, woman!” he growled, his eyes watering.

A rout cake, rich with Madeira currants, swayed in front of him and he almost choked as she pressed it between his lips. “Such language, Your Highness…” Her voice was cool, but there was nothing aloof in her smile. Shame and rosewater shortbread filled George’s mouth, difficult to swallow, and he thought he might expire until the tip of her nose brushed against his cheek. He moaned as she loosened the strings. “There, now I’ll do the other side... better?”

George sighed as the dreadful pressure eased, gulping down the last of the rout cake. He grasped for a reply but found only another moan as dainty fingers pulled at his valet’s careful knots. They found the trusses at the back of his breeches and the give was heavenly. Feeling like the most wretched creature alive, he drained the sherry as though it were the gateway to oblivion but the empty glass only heightened his mortification. “Q-quite…” he found himself saying, reaching blindly for another treat, desperate to pretend he didn’t care.

“Let me,” she whispered, taking the cake from his fingers and holding it to his mouth. The glint in her eyes was darker than laughter, rich with singular pleasure. It enthralled him as ably as her caresses, filled with trembling revelation. _Oh, Gwendolyn…!_

~*~

 

After orange water mousse, what remained of the ices, and the last of the rout cakes, Gwendolyn sat on the floor beside the Prince Regent, dipping wafers into cherry brandy. He was close to insensibility, murmuring outrageous compliments between mouthfuls. The print shop windows hardly did him justice. Shorn of his stays, his vast belly threatened to burst the buttons of his fall. Black silk inexpressibles peeked out from beneath the gaping fabric. Crumbs had slid into the folds of his once immaculate cravat and his linen shirt was splattered with sherry. Absurdly, he was still wearing only one slipper.

“My angel!” the prince drunkenly declared, his head resting in her lap, his chestnut wig askew (revealing wispy strands of grey-blond hair). “Stay with me forever… I conjure you…”  

Gwendolyn did not reply, smiling down at the ridiculous picture he made. It was difficult to think. What vile notion drove her to recreate the circumstances of their first supper? She felt hot all over, near foxed herself, though she had meant not to drink too much. Was it a remnant of her old mission, thrilling whenever the Prince Regent was helpless before her, imagining how easily she might end his life? But she wasn’t thinking of murder… far from it.

She swirled another biscuit in brandy and slid it, dripping, between his lips. The prince mumbled and sighed, closing his eyes and fumbling at his stomach — solid and swollen — as though it too was a coat or a corset that might be unbuttoned or adjusted. She loved the noises he made, little hums, grunts, and sighs. When his shirt rode up, she could make out strange lines running through the blubber like broken veins. The marks looked painful, but he didn’t flinch when she touched them. She bent her head to kiss him.

“La, but… your forfeit!” the prince cried and Gwendolyn almost screamed as he suddenly lurched upright, swaying, his protuberant Hanoverian eyes rimmed with red.

“It’s no matter, pet…” she put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Matter, damme – _course_ it matters!” He sucked in a breath, staring at her with those wild eyes. “Can’t have… not a – of m’word!”  

“I don’t doubt your word, Your Highness,” Gwendolyn reassured him, stroking his arm, holding in laughter. There was something endearing in his panicked, earnest expression.

“They do! Examiner said… horrid… think I don’t know, but – but I do! Can’t have it, no… what about your children, eh?”

“I…” _Lord, did he think she was someone else?_ “I don’t have any children.”      

He gave her a blank, stupid look. “Ah… some — something pretty then…?”

“Hush… we’ll talk of it another time.”

“No, m’dear, you ought to have everything you wish… everything you _deserve!_ A house in London… yet what — what relief it is to have you ‘side me… how they plague… visions… damned things…” Perhaps it was time for her to retire? Gwendolyn tried to draw back but he caught her in his arms, pressing her with kisses that reeked of brandy, and lifted her onto a sofa.

“Prinny — _Prinny, stop!”_ she cried.

Nestled against her legs, he stared up at her pathetically. “But — but Gwinnie…” he whined, running a hand up her leg. “I… _adore_ you! Please let… let me show… oh god — this little foot!” The prince seized one of her feet and kissed it frantically. _Has he gone completely mad?_     “How splendid it is… how beautiful…!” Gwendolyn winced as the hasty fingers pressed against her blisters. But then the glazed eyes widened and his touches gentled where the silk had rubbed red. “My darling is hurt — those villainous shoes! You _must_ tell me… you _never_ tell me…”

“No,” she insisted, trying to pull her foot away, resenting his reproaches. How could he speak as though they had known each other for years? It unnerved her. She stared into a hollow — _the_ hollow — that everything which the wit of man could fancy, or the most profuse extravagance might indulge, had failed to fill. How many women more beautiful than Gwendolyn had supposed their love could fill the void in his character?

Too many, likely enough. The prince let out a broken laugh. “I’m _far_ too drunk, my dear… too — ah-hah — _full_ … to assail your castle.” He whispered the words between her toes, pressing a delicate kiss to each one. “But I… I don’t need… to be sober, ah… to worship you…” His glossy wig had fallen away, revealing a thinning crown, but he gazed at her as though she were a miracle made flesh.

No one had ever stared at her like that, as though her touch could cure any evil, as though the sun would go out if she disappeared. He was her prince tonight, hers entire, near incapacitated by the weight of their revels. The fire was burning low. “If… you promise…” she whispered, even as her better self rebuked her stupidity. She leaned over and, picking up the bowl of conserves, held a sugary rosette out to him like a bond.

Very slowly, gazing into her eyes, he nodded and took it into his mouth as he lifted the hem of her petticoat. Large fingers peeled away her stockings and the skin beneath might have been glass but for the heat that trailed his tongue as he smeared chocolate-tinged saliva up the underside of her knee. She fed him another, trembling against the satin cushions, slowing his progress. His lips made everywhere they touched feel like the inside of her mouth.

When his breath found her nethers Gwendolyn almost shoved him away, but he hummed in delight as though he had happened upon the most delicious thing in the world. The next conserve she offered him received only an impatient huff as he nosed into her, tickling the sensitive hair, leaving her holding the half-melted sweet. She put it on her own tongue, sucking her fingers as his mouth closed over her. Gwendolyn almost cried out, wriggling away, but he found her again, lapping sensation up her body. Expecting a lecherous smile, all she could see were flushed cheeks and half-closed eyes.

     

~*~

 

“Prinny!” the lovely voice cried as George, slow and immense, settled himself between her thighs. He stroked her legs, adjusting his lips to every hitch of trembling breath, determined to show her that this could be so much more than the benefits of his rank. Small fingers dug into his hair and every quivering sigh felt like a triumph. It had been an age since he had tasted a woman’s creamy salt. Isabella didn’t approve of such things. It was like old Brighton: lying on the warm grass eating ices with sea-spray on your lips and the scent of fishermen’s nets mingling with summer flowers. He would pair it with a little Muscadet, perhaps, or a _Pineau de Savennières_?

Breathing heavily through his nose, feeling sluggish and repulsive, he wondered if she was thinking of another man. His knees ached and his stomach was beyond replete, pulling him forwards. He ached with longing, every touch, every movement, a reverence. Gwendolyn gave a soft cry, tears streaking her narrow face, as George tried to tease out another wave of bliss. When the tension broke across her hips he was still reluctant to cease, sucking on it like the husk of a nectarine, arching her into another giddy spasm, drawing out the last pulp of her pleasure.

The carpet seemed to give way and he shuddered, close to terror now that those dark eyes were gazing down at him, her body a limp tangle on damp satin. He knew he had satisfied her, but his heart was on the brink of collapse. One hit and he would fall back into the unforgiving sky. George wiped his forehead. Someone was laughing: slow, unravelling cachinnations. His glass was empty and he couldn’t reach the bottle.

Violet ate the edges of the room. He kissed the dark, wiry hairs and felt heavy with something other than supper. It settled over him like a velvet mantle and the air shivered as he licked his lips. He felt larger, not merely bigger, but heightened – as though his hairs were standing on end for miles. He could feel the echoes subside — no, he could sense them all perfectly — layers of being falling into place. The moment breached and, for half a second, he vanished into an intelligence he did not recognise. It quivered in the beyond and simmered under his skin, all things at once, until it drained into the sharp ache in his gut and all he wanted to do was sleep.

 

~*~

 

The field of sunlit purple dimmed into traces of scent. Lavender and hyssop smudged into sweat and white silk. Warmth smoothed across Gwendolyn’s side, coming to rest in the dip of her waist. She stretched, half-dreaming, as the breeze ruffled her hair like a sigh. Gold fringed and looped about brocade that cascaded — pale blue and white — from an ornate canopy above.

The heat shifted and she turned. The prince lay beside her, warm and immense, his breaths still heavy with slumber. His mouth was open and the bob of his jaw almost disappeared amidst the voluminous folds of his chin, while the golden tassel of his velvet nightcap hung over one closed eye. Scars, white with age, laced the sides of his soft neck. Scrofula. Gwendolyn lifted the tassel away from his face and touched the faint marks where disease had once bubbled and broken the pale skin. It was a secret she had not expected.

The prince slept on, a dozing whale washed up on a satin tide, only half covered by his blue and gold counterpane. He sighed, close to waking, and pulled her close. There was something unexpectedly pleasurable in being enveloped by something so large, so warm, and so soft. How could there be such a divide between how a man looked and how he felt? Against her cheek, his breast swelled like a woman’s beneath the linen gown, and she could hear the sedate beat of his heart.  

Last night dripped slowly back into her consciousness and she blushed, unable to deny the selfish kick of pleasure. The recollection stripped away the shield of the wager and coiled inside her like a guilty secret. Oddly, she couldn’t remember entering the prince’s chambers, only drifting away on pink cushions with Prinny between her legs. Had he carried her here? It didn’t seem likely. Last night the man could barely move.

There was a rustle and clink from the other side of the room. Alarmed, Gwendolyn turned to see that she and the prince were far from alone in his bedchamber. She pulled up the sheet, feeling exposed. Three young pages (including Tom Kerrick), almost camouflaged amongst the finery in their blue and gold coats, were quietly busying themselves setting out bottles and trays, while a tall, dark-haired man was laying out a large blue robe. No one looked in her direction.

A door opened and the narrow, blotchy face of Sir John McMahon peered into the room. Gwendolyn slid further under the sheets, hoping the prince’s secretary could not see her.

“Liverpool and Sidmouth are here,” he whispered to the pages, “why is he not yet awake?”

“His Royal Highness had a… a most trying night,” one of them replied quickly. Hiding beneath the counterpane, she could only imagine the studiously blank expressions on the pages’ faces.

The Irishman sighed. “Please tell me he wasn’t up all night drinking maraschino… no, don’t tell me — the prime minister’s already in a pet. Just wake him up, for god’s sake!” She heard a click as the door closed.

“Your Royal Highness…?” Kerrick’s tentative words were suddenly very close. Gwendolyn hadn’t even heard his footsteps on the carpet. _This is ridiculous_ , she thought, _they all know I’m here._ She sat up and the page met her gaze, his cheeks as pink as her own, and then immediately fixed his eyes on his sleeping master.

“Prinny,” she murmured, gently shaking his shoulder, trying not to think of the men who must be staring at her, and wishing she had on more than her slip. What happened to her dress? “Prinny… wake up.”

The large body stretched and pale eyes flickered. The prince yawned and nestled into her bosom. She shoved him away, which earned her a sleepy moan and another brief glimpse of pouchy, bloodshot eyes before he shoved his head under a pillow. Gwendolyn waited a moment and then poked him in the stomach, provoking a muffled obscenity and a drowsy scowl. “God’s teeth, _what_ …?”

“Sir,” the page’s voice was anxious, “Lord Liverpool has arrived.”

This news seemed to make very little difference to the Prince Regent’s inclination to continue sleeping. “Eh… what the devil is he doing here…?”

“I believe Your Royal Highness summoned him.”

“Well, he’s _my_ minister, isn’t he? He can attend me at a more seemly hour.”

“Ah… sir, ‘tis past noon and Lord Sidmouth is with him.”

Gwendolyn was amazed. How had they lain abed so late? The prince sighed, heaving himself upright, and made a sulky, offhand gesture to his page that might have meant anything. After adjusting the counterpane to cover his ample belly, he took one of her hands and gallantly kissed her palm, his unshaven face scratchy against her skin. “Alas, my angel, it seems I must leave your side…” It was uncertain whether his look of affliction was due to their temporary parting or last night’s excesses.

 

~*~

 

The light pained George’s eyes and his head felt like rotten wood. Why had he summoned Liverpool? He could feel the answer, along with most of yesterday, tied in a weighty knot behind his eyes. Had he deflowered Miss Hunt? He didn’t think so, but then why was she in his bed, all cream and blushes? Her chemise had slipped off one shoulder and he covered the sharp jut of bone with his hand, kissing her gently. The chit was still far too thin but, god, those dark eyes, enticing him from beneath a wilderness of jasmine-scented curls… 

“I don’t wish to keep you from your duties,” she whispered, “perhaps I ought to go…?”

“Nonsense!” He kissed her again, lingering in her scent and stroking her breasts. She felt like the only genuine thing in the room, piquant and irresistible, lending everything around her some measure of her fascination. There was no way she could leave his private apartments at this hour without exciting scandal. His ministers were likely waiting in the antechamber. “Stay here and have some hot chocolate…”   

“Your Roy—”

“Yes, yes!” George snapped, pulling away, irritated by the interruption. He shot a bleary glance at his valet. “Dupaquier…”

“Here, sir.” A grand swathe of blue silk _douillette_ was wrapped around George’s shoulders and steady arms helped him out of bed. Dizzy, he leaned on one of his pages for support, feeling like the heaviest creature alive as his valet led him to his dressing room. He almost fell asleep being shaved, but the application of orange flower water, arquebusade, cold cream, and a little laudanum enabled George to feel more himself. He shuddered and shook his head when the man set out a fresh pair of stays, unable to bear the thought of anything half so tight.

It felt as though the cursed mirror was laughing at him. “Get rid of that glass,” he barked, “I don’t wish to see it again.” _Why is everything so difficult?_  His head was pulsing something dreadful. It took three attempts for his valet to fashion a satisfactory cravat, but eventually George shuffled out of his chambers (desperately wishing he could climb back into bed with Miss Hunt) towards the Blue Velvet Room where his ministers stood waiting.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the lovely Stays for helping me realise how to make this chapter work.


	9. La Blanquette de Poulardes aux truffes

_He has not a penny, save what he obtains_

_By making those drudge of less-desperate brains;_

_Nor would he exist, were his victuals confin’d_

_To the earnings of either his hands or his mind!_

 

_Wheresoever he goes, he is valued as naught,_

_Because he’s deficient in action and thought:_

_All he thinks of is eating, and getting dead drunk,_

_Or putting his friends in a deuce of a funk._

 

_He has no discretion, but gives all his days_

_To the shepherds, who flatter and prate in his praise;_

_He is easily known by his very think noddle,_

_By his being light-headed and fond of the bottle!_

~ ‘A Peek at the Pavilion' or 'Boiled Mutton with Caper Sauce’ 

 

Robert Jenkinson — the Earl of Liverpool — hadn’t been George’s first, or even third, choice to replace poor Perceval as his prime minister. Only a few years younger than George, Jenksberg (as everyone called him behind his back) had kept his figure — even to the point of an unfashionable sharpness of limb — and his blond hair, lightly powdered, was only just beginning to thin. A more charitable soul might call the man handsome, but George could never reconcile such fair colouring with Jenksberg’s dark gaze. For without brows, lashes, or hair dark enough to compliment them, those beetle black eyes rendered the prime minister’s gaunt countenance almost insubstantial.

And George, who had never in his life been anything but substantial (and was feeling all the more so on this particular morning), was in no mood to be glared at. The light jarred his wretched senses, everything ached, and — despite the laudanum — his poor head felt as though several cruel persons had assaulted it with bottlescrews. And, to add to his sufferings, he had stupidly allowed himself to be persuaded away from his warm, scented sheets and the beautiful creature nestled between them — with whom the unsmiling countenance of his prime minister formed a poor contrast, indeed!

It was not George’s custom to be so indiscreet as to entertain ladies in his private apartments (he couldn’t recall having a charmer in his bed since that bitch Frances Villiers), but last night he must have been too drunk to care. And now lovely Gwendolyn Hunt was waiting on him, _en_ d _éshabillé_ and anxious for his return. He licked his lips, recalling her cotton chemise slipping from those delicate shoulders and imaging the flimsy garment retreating further still. _Oh, to be a young buck with no duty but pleasure…!_

But then the King would still be in his right mind and, instead of holding his tongue, Jenksberg (the iceberg joke had never seemed more appropriate or less amusing) would have already dished out a sharp remark about being made to wait. The prime minister’s dark eyes were narrow with frustration. _That’s right, Jenks, you must treat your prince with respect!_ George treated him to a benign smile. No, he never wanted to go back to the days when his father’s ministers were free to insult and ignore him.

But deference enforced by rank alone, like the purchased favours of some delightful female, could provide only so much enjoyment before disappointment set in. His smile grew brittle. “Ah. Liverpool, yes… fine morning…” he mumbled, embarrassed, hoping the prime minister would be quick about whatever it was he wanted to say.

“Good _afternoon_ , Your Royal Highness.” Jenksberg made a stiff bow and then glanced coldly at McMahon, who was standing quietly beside George. “… Sir John.”

After the wretched dawns of George’s childhood (six o’clock was such a ghastly trial in winter), he had made it a rule never to rise earlier than necessary. But Jenksberg, like the King, made no secret of the fact that he preferred to keep country hours, unable to accept the fact that a fashionable morning could last until late afternoon. _Good man_ — _loyal, like his father, wot? One of Pitt’s school, honest fellow, yes, knows his way around a balance sheet, economy is what’s wanted, hey-hey! Are you listening, you fat fribble?_

Fighting the instinct to wince as the prime minister bent to kiss his hand, George’s attention was seized by two bright smears of scarlet: a pair of red hessians. He blinked, startled by their vivid colour, but the boots remained inexplicably connected to Jenksberg’s skinny legs. He bit back an indecorous chuckle. The prime minister looked as though he was standing in two fire buckets! _How in the world has he been my minister for four years and profited so little from my good example?_ Jenksberg’s otherwise drab, ill-fitting attire served only to heighten the ridiculous effect — the man had no idea how to dress!

As Liverpool stepped back, George composed himself sufficiently to greet Lord Sidmouth, who smiled as he took his turn to bow. “It is truly a _delight_ to see Your Royal Highness looking so well.” The home secretary was older than George and, despite his balding pate, still possessed something of the suave good looks of his youth. The wags called him Dr Addington (after his father) but, although both ministers owed their peerages to ambitious parents, Sidmouth carried his new rank with far greater ease.

 “I don’t _feel_ particularly well,” George complained with a sigh, all but collapsing into his chair, gesturing for the two ministers to be seated, “but ‘tis most kind of you to say so.” He turned his attention to the breakfast set out on his favourite Boulle table. There was buttered toast, a dish of oranges, stuffed pike, cabbage flowers, lobster cakes, rabbit sausages, coddled eggs in Marsala cream, beefsteaks glazed in onion jam, and what turned out to be truffled chicken hiding beneath a layer of golden pastry. Here, at least, was some consolation for being forced so rudely from his bed! A little refreshment would provide him with the strength to face the day.    

Sidmouth accepted a glass and a plate but Jenksberg continued to stand, poised awkwardly behind a chair, pinching the silk upholstery with long, restless fingers. He obviously wanted to pace, but etiquette forbade him from showing his back to his acting-sovereign. George waved an impatient hand and turned him loose to wear a track in his carpet. It was better than having the fellow loom over his breakfast like a vulture.

“Well Liverpool,” he addressed the prime minister in as amiable a tone as he could muster, forcing himself not to make a joke about the boots as he cut into a rabbit sausage, “you’re certain you won’t join us?”

Jenksberg stalked over to the window. “Thank you, sir, but no.”

How George _adored_ truffles! That hypnotic aroma, like the most heavenly garlic dissolving in buttery musk amidst ancient wildflowers, sent his addled senses into blissful shivers of anticipation. He lingered over the chicken, which the truffles elevated to the sublime. He couldn’t understand why some people preferred pheasant to fowl. It could only be snobbery. Why, if pheasants were as common as chickens, likely no one would eat them at all. But, speaking of snobbery… “Sir John, you must sit with us…”

“You are too gracious, Your Royal Highness, but I…uh…” McMahon shook his head, his pox-scarred cheeks growing ruddy, even though he and George had shared a glass many times.

“Nonsense, Mac! Sit, sit… have some breakfast. I insist.”

Another seat was procured and his secretary obediently sat, glancing nervously at Sidmouth, who affected to ignore him. The prime minister continued to stare pointedly out the window. George wasn’t impressed. Jenksberg’s father had begun his career as Lord Bute’s secretary. Who was _he_ to look down on McMahon? Or did he dislike Sir John because the man was Irish? George gave all three men a forced, vacant smile and cut himself another piece of chicken. Hadn’t Brummell’s father been secretary to Lord North? La, but the world was filled with the self-important sons of secretaries!

Liverpool cleared his throat and finally turned to face him. “I am relieved, sir, to see that you have received our recommendations with equanimity.”

Pain spiked in George’s gut. He took another bite and his innards rebelled with a bilious growl. Queasy, he set down his fork and put a rose-scented napkin to his mouth, fearing the re-appearance of last night’s supper. Somehow, the pulse of pain between his eyes had made him forget his aching, bloated stomach. “…Recommendations?” he echoed, distracted.

 _Faith, what did I eat last night?_  The answer — _everything_ — sunk slowly into George’s addled senses. Miss Hunt’s tender firelit glances, the pretty picnic of dishes strewn across the carpet, and he… had he really eaten it all? He set aside the napkin and the scent of truffles bedevilled him anew. It was all George could do to hold back a moan of misery. He was supposed to be _plus svelte_ for his _nouvelle passion_ , but yesterday’s moderation had only succeeded in making him embarrass himself all the more at supper. The arms of his chair felt snug against his uncorseted sides as he gazed glumly at his generous portion of eggs, beefsteak, rabbit sausage, and truffled chicken, and then up at McMahon, Sidmouth, and Liverpool. None of them shared his portly figure. What was the secret?

They stared back at him. Had he missed something? “What, ah… what was that, Liverpool?”     

“Your Royal Highness’ equanimity in the face of disappointment is much to be admired... I confess I am surprised.”

For a moment, George feared that he’d been thinking aloud. He adjusted his waistcoat (the lower buttons were somewhat strained) and leaned forward to take a piece of toast. “I, ah… what disappointment?”

“Sir, the letter,” McMahon whispered.

“Letter…?” he repeated, hardly listening as he wafted a listless hand toward a decanter of Chian red. Hopefully it would settle his stomach. “Martin,” he called plaintively to one of his pages, “be a good fellow and fetch me some calminative powder?”

Yet, as the page ran off and George squinted at the ruby liquid filling his glass, something tugged at the edge of his thoughts, mingling with his nausea and the fruity aroma of the wine. _A letter_ … _wait, wasn’t there something…?_ Yesterday had been so very strange, but there… there _had_ been a letter. He remembered… odd lights in the dining room and Miss Hunt’s pretty face slack with surprise… _A_ _ll new expenses for additions or alterations at Brighton or elsewhere will, under the present circumstances, be abandoned… an insensibility on the part of Your Royal Highness… to the sufferings & deprivations of others…_

 _“Damn_ _equanimity!”_ he cried, startling the footman. The decanter slipped from the man’s grasp and Baccarat crystal smashed against Tournai plate, washing the table red.

_~*~_

 

The Prince Regent’s bedchamber revealed its owner’s age. It was, in every sense, the boudoir of some grand personage from the previous century: an over-decorated cake iced in white, pale blue, and gold. And, unlike any of the other rooms Gwendolyn had seen in Carlton House, it was a _mess_. Every golden table and magnificent sideboard was a jumble of beautiful clutter: flowers, books, trinkets, decanters, statuary, perfume bottles, and dishes of potpourri. The brocade walls were so crowded with paintings — many of them of women — that the pieces seemed like works submitted to an exhibition. Two bronze figures posed naked against the golden clock, jewelled birds fronted glossy black cabinets, and the prince’s gilded escritoire was piled high with what looked like sheets of music and architectural drawings.

A silver tray lay at the end of the swansdown bed, laden with newspapers, biscuits, and a large pot of hot chocolate. The idea of so rich a drink made Gwendolyn nauseous. Last night had provided enough sweets for anyone’s taste. The remains of the rich desserts she had shared with the prince felt like a leaden weight in her gut. Closing her eyes, she rolled into the dip in the mattress where the prince had slept. Sweat, orange blossom, civet, and lavender. _Prinny._ The animal part of her wanted to curl up in those scents until his return. She moved her fingers lower to where his mouth had been. It was so easy to imagine being still flush against that big body, nestled in its warmth.

Shifting awkwardly, hardly knowing what to do, Gwendolyn forced herself to sit up and covered her chest with her arms, hugging her shoulders. Her one consolation was that, after the prince’s departure, his pages, valets, and attendants had emptied from the room like water sliding off a well-drained field. But they — or their master — might return at a moment’s notice and she didn’t want to be found still lounging in the royal bed in only her slip. Where were her cap, short stays, and gown? Their absence made her uneasy.

A fire had been laid in the handsome hearth (it was best not to think about how many people had been in and out of the room while she had been asleep) but the room still felt cold as she pushed aside the garish counterpane. _Frost all summer and now snow in September… will we ever see a spring?_  The bed was piled at least four or five mattresses high. Sitting on the edge (and wishing herself back beneath the covers), Gwendolyn’s feet didn’t touch the floor. She rubbed her legs together, feeling hollow as a reed. It was so easy to think ill of women who allowed themselves to be lured into swansdown beds that were not their own. But so much had happened, and at such a pace, that she could barely consider what else she could have done or what might befall her next. Her fate was hitched to a team of horses with no coachman. Such an arrangement could only end in disaster.

 _But I knew that from the beginning._ There were gilded bed-steps to ease her descent but she made the small jump to the soft carpet without their aid — remembering her blisters with a wince as her feet hit the floor — and headed instinctively towards the hearth. _One wouldn’t like to think, my dear Gwendolyn… that your lying in the road was rather more deliberate than you would care to admit?_ The heat warmed her legs but she still felt chilled. A week ago she hadn’t cared to see winter or spring. The prince hadn’t asked her about it, not since that first day, but he _knew_ — even if he was ignorant of the circumstances. Biting her lip, she nudged the screen aside to hold her hands nearer the flames.

The French clock chimed the quarter hour. Thinking about the prince brought Gwendolyn back to last night. _You do not appear to find your situation unpleasant._ Well. It would be foolish to think that knowing anyone so intimately, even a selfish old fussock such as the Prince Regent, wouldn’t result in a certain degree of attachment. Everyone possessed their better qualities. And Prinny owned a certain warmth… a peculiar charm which, even when his nerves failed him, was quick to reassert itself. Princely confidence, she supposed, that all misfortunes were but summer showers.

Thomas used to say that the Prince of Wales was easily the best case for an English republic the country had seen in years and, so far, Gwendolyn had seen nothing that contradicted that opinion. He appeared to regard his royal duties as nothing but chores to be completed when pressed upon him and gave hardly a thought to the people whose taxes kept him in finery. And yet… those blue eyes, so pale she sometimes thought they had no colour at all, held no trace of cruelty. How they would fill with tears if his people ever brought him to the scaffold. But imagining such a scene no longer brought her any comfort. Instead of a large, distant figure she saw her lover — for there could be no doubt, after last night, that he had earned that title — trembling in the grip of one of his nervous attacks and silently imploring her for help. Gwendolyn shivered. Perhaps she ought to borrow one of his banyans?

Wary of the dark-haired Frenchman who appeared to be the prince’s chief valet, she cracked open the door to what she assumed must be a dressing-room. There was no one inside. Ornate wardrobes, built into the walls, reached the ceiling. And, unlike the prince’s bedroom, it was tidy as could be. Three full-length mirrors occupied one corner and another large mirror, ready to be put up or taken away, leaned against a dressing table. Its golden frame was heavy with rather gaudy, old-fashioned cherubs. The thing seemed overdone, even for Prinny. Gwendolyn didn’t like it at all.

The first wardrobe she opened contained the prince’s hairpieces. She smiled at them, perched on their stands like small, curly-haired animals, and gave one a pat. Some of them even sported false whiskers hanging down like little paws. Most of the wigs were blond or brown and cut in the modern style, but two were courtly periwigs piled high with white curls. Who were they, these people — likely women — who had sold their tresses? Perhaps some had decided on a fashionable crop and a few coins in their pockets, but many would have made the choice out of desperation. She’d considered such a step herself, once. What would their reactions be if she told them their hair now graced the head of the prince? _Bread or the regent’s head._ Gwendolyn closed the wardrobe.

The next one boasted vast tiers of coats and jackets. She did not dare touch any of them. But, after opening several other wardrobes and discovering great quantities of linen shirts, waistcoats of every variety, and an immense stash of hatboxes, she located a row of morning gowns. How one man could own so many clothes boggled the mind. Running her fingers over the banyans, and recognising a few of the beautiful fabrics, she selected a gown of pink silk brocade and hoped that the prince wouldn’t begrudge her the loan.

The garment fairly swallowed her, made as it was for a gentleman both tall and wide, but it gave Gwendolyn the pleasant feeling of being draped in a blanket and she could not help but turn to examine her reflection in such a costume. The combination of her uncombed hair and the prince’s robe was unexpectedly arresting, imparting something of the tousled grace of a courtesan. The stranger in the mirror glared at Gwendolyn. _You ought to be ashamed,_ she told herself firmly. _He will tire of you and then what will you do?_

She turned away, retreating to the prince’s bedroom, and went to the bow window. Beyond the gardens of Carlton House, she could see a few people riding in the park. The remaining patches of snow seemed like laundry blown astray by the wind and the autumn trees were garbed like a crowd of travelling players, their leaves ranging from plentiful mustard to ragged burgundy. Above them, the clouds were pasted up like a bad coat of whitewash, thick in some places and thinning to blue in others.

A sudden cry, followed by a sound like shattering glass, broke across Gwendolyn’s thoughts and she startled in fright.

_“I have been insulted — abandoned!”_

It was Prinny’s voice, edged with hysteria, and Gwendolyn ran thoughtlessly towards it. But, when she tried to open the door to the next room, strong, white-gloved hands shoved her back.  

 _“Don’t!”_ Kerrick hissed from other side.

 

~*~

 

“…I _assure_ you, Your Royal Highness, that is the _last_ thing we would dream of doing.” Lord Sidmouth spoke calmly, taking little notice of the footman who stood frozen, unable to believe what had happened, as his panicked fellows rushed to rescue the dishes, remove the spoiled tablecloth, and blot the carpet. “It is our very _loyalty,”_ he continued _,_ “that urges us to warn against… actions which might prove unwise.”

“Then why… why do you _persist_ in these… these _absurd_ suggestions? It is intolerable!” The front of George’s _banyan_ was drenched in wine, and the noise generated by the removal of what should have been a lovely breakfast was extraordinary; every clink and thump tortured his already smarting nerves. Still queasy, and glaring his ministers through unshed tears, he tried to focus on the unwelcome task of easing himself out of his chair. One of his pages offered him assistance but, further irritated by the assumption that he needed help, he waved the lad off. “No, Kerrick — another robe, if you please. I am _drenched_.”

“I… I…” The footman, who had finally regained his powers of speech, collapsed in a trembling bow. “M-my _humble_ a-apologies _,_ Your Royal High-highness…!” His eyes were closed tight as though he expected to be struck by a thunderbolt.

George, who was having more difficulty than anticipated, groaned as he finally heaved his torpid body to its feet, resenting the abdominous awkwardness his figure seemed all too determined to achieve. Dear God, was he going to end up looking like the King of Württemberg, or the shapeless Louis XVIII, with only his rank to recommend him to the ladies? The thought brought him perilously close to losing last night’s supper. _Where is Martin with that damned stomach powder?_

The footman was still stuttering out his apology: “I… h-have… no n-notion what came o-over me…”

“Oh, _do_ buck up!” George snapped. Advice, he realised, which applied as much to him as much as it did to the servant. He tried to soften his tone: “Daresay I gave you quite the fright, hm?”

“Yes, I — I mean, _no!_ I…”

“What’s your name?”

“Coates, s-sir.”

“Well, Coates, it’s not what one expects, is it?” He angled his arms to assist Kerrick in pulling the spoiled gown from his shoulders. “Don’t take it too hard. Off you go.” _There, you see? No need for hysterics on anyone’s part._

“Sir,” Lord Liverpool’s narrow stare kept up the same irritating pressure as George’s headache. “Tierney has been asking for a public enquiry into your, forgive me, financial incontinence — his words not mine — and there were cheers _across the house_ when he proposed questioning the Lord Steward regarding your expenses. England is in no mood for frivolities. The distresses of the country are such that Your Royal Highness _must_ be seen to economise...”

“At least for the time being,” Sidmouth added.

“You are both quite wrong,” George replied, irritated by the prime minister’s sermonising tone, “England expects her prince to add splendour to his state!” He knew men who could turn anger to good account, harnessing it to thundering speeches and implacable demands. The King, when roused, used to turn an apoplectic shade of purple and bellow like a bull. On particularly cold Windsor mornings he had even glimpsed steam issue from the royal nostrils. But, while George could act himself into a fine semblance of fury, his true passions was always undercut by the propensity to weep and the only way to curb this tendency was to avert any display of wrath. Tears, he had come to understand, had very little effect upon politicians. “The people of Brighton _adore_ my pavilion! Am I not right, Sir John?”

McMahon nodded reassuringly. “The people of Brighton are extremely grateful to Your Royal Highness as, indeed, are all of those fortunate enough to enjoy your most generous and discerning patronage.”

“There, you see?” George smiled proudly. “Lord Moira writes to me from Calcutta, you know, and he says nothing opposes the revolutionary spirit like royal magnificence. Farmer George, la, Brown George — my father never understood the power, the _beauty_ of spectacle! And what is there to do in such dismal times _but_ spend, eh?” Encouraged by another nod from McMahon, he hurried on in a rush of nervous enthusiasm: “And with the employment provided by work on the canal, my new processional route, and Nash’s continued transformation of Marylebone Park, Londoners also have cause to appreciate my generosity and good taste. Why, I have every expectation that, in a few years, London will quite eclipse Paris!”

But Jenksberg was unconvinced. “That may be, sir, but said park is presently a vast bog and our friends in parliament are in no mood for such costly endeavours. I must inform you that, despite the funds Vansittart set aside at the beginning of the year to cover the expenses arising from Princess Charlotte’s wedding and consequent establishment—”

“I have only _one_ daughter,” George interrupted, “and, if you recall, ‘twas not _my_ idea that she marry a man incapable of supporting her — you know, when Coburg vowed to endow her with all his worldly goods _,_ the girl actually giggled?”  

“The Princess Charlotte,” Liverpool continued dryly, “as far as I am aware, has yet to install Claremont with chandeliers costing six-thousand apiece, nor commissioned a new royal yacht for twenty-eight thousand, despite the fact that the one she… _you_ ordered last year is not yet finished. Sir, you must understand, _nothing_ is looked upon with more jealousy than the personal expenses of the sovereign or, in this case, his representative. Yesterday we were obliged to inform the admiralty of the need to divest themselves of some sixty-thousand sailors because, with the loss of wartime taxes, we can no longer afford them. I… when Vansittart told me the figures submitted by the Lord Steward… twenty-thousand for furniture when fifty such had already been voted towards that object the year before, despite the fact that a grant was provided towards those same furnishings, and now these Gothic-Hindoo plans for Brighton at the public expense! Sir, the Civil List is overdrawn by _half a million pounds!_ His Majesty would surely want—”  

“My _father_ , regrettably, is in _no condition_ to have any opinion on the matter.” George’s tone was glacial. It was the same old speech. Parliament were upset over his debts — well, when _weren’t_ they? After the beastly trick they’d played on him in ’95, he had no intention of limiting his expenditure for their sake. Besides, it was hardly George’s fault that the first yacht he ordered had been all very well for a cruise but entirely inadequate as a racing vessel. One could not go to Cowes and not compete! And what did a man like Jenksberg know of style, standing there in those ridiculous red boots? Last year Vansittart told him that the country’s revenue had exceeded all estimates by many millions… and yet now it was foundering? Surely one negligible harvest could not account for such a change? Still, those poor sailors, something ought to be done for them… Ah, there was that angel, Martin, with his stomach powder!     

 

~*~

 

Gwendolyn, one ear pressed against the cream and gilt door, found herself in the extremely unlikely position of wanting to cheer the prime minister. If only she could see the regent’s face! Then the door swung open and she fell backwards, anxious not to be seen, and almost tripped over the trailing hem of her borrowed gown. 

But it was only Tom Kerrick with the prince’s blue banyan draped over one arm. He closed the door softly behind him, hazel eyes twinkling. “Liverpool’s going to get thrown out again if he’s not careful,” he whispered.

“What do you mean _,_ again?”

 _“I won’t hear of postponing my plans for the pavilion!”_  The Prince Regent sounded like an outraged child. It made Gwendolyn want to slap him.

“How can you respect a man like that?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Kerrick shook his head, staring at her borrowed attire. “I’m to fetch His Royal Highness a fresh morning gown.” His gaze made Gwendolyn uncomfortable and she tugged the silk banyan tighter across her chest, making certain that it covered her slip. _Well, you can’t have this one._ There was a moment of silence between the two of them and then the page gave her an awkward bow and rushed past her towards the prince’s dressing room.

 _“I’m sure no one here,”_ a smooth voice drifted through from the next room, _“wishes to deny England any portion of that splendid style which all the world has come to admire as characteristic of Your Royal Highness.”_ Old Screwmouth. Gwendolyn shivered and peered through the keyhole, but all she could see was the back of the prince’s chair and the blue and gold coats of the servants moving around it.

The home secretary was a ruthless reactionary. He had spies everywhere and treated even the most peaceable protestors like base criminals. Worse, in fact, since felons must be charged with some crime or else released, whereas members of reform societies — if they weren’t murdered in the street by soldiers — could simply disappear. _“Unfortunately, there are discontented elements who aim to turn the country’s present distresses to their benefit. I hesitate to disturb Your Royal Highness with such matters, but the present situation is delicate in the extreme. These elements have, for some while, fixed their antipathy on the person of the acting-sovereign…”_

 _“Don’t be ridiculous,”_ she heard the regent reply, _“no prince was ever idolised by the people of this country as I am.”_   A grin crept onto her lips as she imagined her praise-drunk lover puffing up like a portly peacock. He had to know it was a lie, yet he almost sounded as though he believed it, so greatly did he long for it to be true.

 _“Ah… you mistake my meaning, sir. While the majority of your father’s subjects are undoubtedly loyal, of course, there are a few radical malcontents_ — _traitors_ — _who conspire to do injury to your royal person.”_

Gwendolyn’s smile fell away. She held her breath.

_“What? Madmen rather than traitors, surely…?”_

_“I’m afraid not. A Jacobin cleric named Tripthorne, a member of the so-called Freedom Society, was last week heard to declare that he claimed the right, on behalf of his suffering countrymen, to cut off the head of the Prince Regent. He planned to attack your carriage on your journey back from Brighton.”_

_“And what, you stopped him, by God?”_

Tears pricked at Gwendolyn’s eyes and her stomach clenched with fear and guilt. Had someone in the society been caught or… tortured…? _Lord forbid!_ Her hand, the only fixed point of her trembling body, seemed to be stuck to her mouth and she gasped in air through her nose, desperately trying to muffle the sound of her panic.

_“I discovered the conspiracy only after the attack failed. I can only assume that, by the grace of God, Tripthorne and his men missed your coach in the storm. Alas, they remain at liberty. But I have taken the precaution of offering a reward for the man’s capture. I assure you, sir, he will hang before the month is out. In the meantime, I have made arrangements with the Duke of York to double your contingent of Life Guards.”_

Thomas had always insisted that no good ever came of violence and now she was responsible for an innocent man being branded an assassin. And yet, how typical that they blamed her dead brother rather than believing a woman capable of such an act! But how did Sidmouth know the name Tripthorne? And how, after Lord Stafford had almost recognised her, could she have let herself be lulled into thinking that her virtue was all she had to lose at Carlton House? _What a fool!_ How long would it be before she was discovered and banished to some dark cell to await trial and execution?

The prime minister’s voice drifted, indifferent, over her panic. _“We cannot afford to forget the lessons of history, sir.”_

_“Damme, I refuse to be lectured by the cur most responsible for this outrage! It is your sensibilities that are lacking, Liverpool, not mine! This — this is your fault!”_

_“I hardly think—”_ she heard the prime minister reply, but the prince cut him off.

_“These Corn Laws you’ve come up with on the eve of famine – it’s shocking, shocking, I tell you. It’s no wonder people are mutinous over them — I cannot number the painful distresses I’ve suffered on account of them, and now this! And what next, are you going to resurrect the Stale Bread Act? As my father’s regent, I cannot be expected to sit by while my people starve…!”_

_Oh, Prinny!_ Gwendolyn wrenched her hand away from her face, giddy and terrified all at once, and managed to gulp down a few rough breaths. _Wait, did this mean… last night… was he forfeiting the bet?_ Her heart soared and her knees went weak. _Please forgive me, O Lord, for ever seeking to do harm to another!_ Thomas had been right all along. And _she_ had done this, not Hunt’s oratory, not all the petitions, not thousands marching in the street!   

“He took me in.”

She turned. Tom Kerrick had a fresh banyan over his arm. It was one she had seen before: bright green silk embroidered with silver birds.

The page’s mouth was tight. “My father was a lieutenant with the Prince of Wales’ Own. He was a fashionable but incompetent soldier and the sale of his commission didn’t pay a quarter of the debts he left behind when he died at Benavente.”

At any other time, Gwendolyn would have been honoured to receive such a confidence. _Be quiet,_ she longed to scream at him, _I must know what they’re saying!_

But Kerrick kept talking: “Four days after we received the news, I had to part with my mother’s savings to prevent her from being buried at a crossroads with a stake hammered through her heart like a common suicide. I was fifteen. I know the prince has his faults, but the gent who took me from that cursed house and promised me a future, will always have my respect.” He bowed and made his way to the door. “Excuse me, Miss Hunt.”

As soon as the golden handle clicked shut behind him, Gwendolyn flung herself at the door – trying not to think about the contempt in the page’s hazel eyes — desperate to hear what was being said on the other side.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord Liverpool’s eye-catching boots are recorded in the diaries of Madame de Lieven and his nickname, Jenksberg, I found in Lord Malmesbury’s correspondence. I thought I’d have this done long before now, but I’ve been so busy and this chapter proved to be an unexpectedly long and difficult one. Because of its length I’ve split it down the middle, so the next half will be along very soon. Thank you, those of you who are still here, for sticking with this story!


	10. Cakes à la Madeleine et les Sucreries

_Nero had no conscience to dread its frown,_

_ This _ _drinks, his conscience and his fears to drown._

_His sober reason frightened at the view_

_Of visions, which conviction whispers true,_

_Sick’ning at heart, and destitute of soul,_

_He loses all his terrors in the bowl;_

_Joins in the catch, or sinks in am’rous toy,_

_And takes a stimulus to taste its joy._

_While ‘round his parasites obsequious bow,_

_Ask what they will, they are successful now,_

_For love and wine exhilarating tends_

_To make him affable to all his friends._

_Friends, that like insects fatten on the tree_

_So strong and verdant once — of Liberty!_

 

 ~ ‘Nero Vindicated’

 

There was a moment of silence. Liverpool raised a surprised brow and, for a moment, George thought he had won. Then Sidmouth burst out laughing. The sound cut through his confidence like a razor. “Oh, sir, who _have_ you been talking to? No one has suggested reviving the Stale Bread Act. While older loaves certainly benefit the poor by being more filling and nutritious, ordering bakers to let their bread harden before sale proved quite untenable, in spite of the reward offered to anyone who informed on them. Whereas the Corn Laws are _extremely_ popular! Not even Grey would suggest they be altered — ‘tis only right that we protect British interests rather than allowing the purchase of cheap foreign grain. Nothing could please old John Bull more than getting a good price for his crops.”

The prime minister, leaning against the mantelpiece, said nothing.

“’Tis most comforting,” Sidmouth continued, “to hear Your Royal Highness express some interest in your government’s fiscal policies, but I am sorry to say that such notions are _entirely_ the work of malicious persons, such as Cobbett and Hunt, disposed to inflame the lower orders by persuading them that we can afford them some relief. Why, with the loss of the property tax, we’re against the wall as it is. It is a conspiracy aimed at provoking honest Englishmen to revolution and I am surprised — nay, _distressed_ to learn that such lies have reached Carlton House.”

Now George remembered why he disliked the home secretary. The man had an infuriating way of making him feel like a fool. It was Sidmouth who had conspired with his father in ’97 to deny him any promotion or active service and who so often insisted on hanging criminals George wished to pardon. “But…?” he faltered, glancing at the remaining decanters lined up on the sideboard — their labels gleaming silver — and gesturing weakly for a glass of port. Could his brother and Miss Hunt have steered him wrong? Fred was as Tory as they came. Surely he would never suggest anything radical?

“Britain _will_ have an adequate supply of grain, sir, I promise you.” Liverpool’s soft voice was firm. “And, in the meantime, it is our duty to observe the most rigid economy in _every branch_ of public expenditure.”

The port was perfect. Its aroma brought George to a patch of sun-baked brambles on the edge of a wood: dry raspberry leaves, bird-ravaged blackberries, dog violets, and windfall plums hidden in the grass of a nearby orchard. It was a wilderness that turned to bramble jelly in his mouth, autumn scent to winter taste: preserves and plum pudding, punch and black butter. He took another gulp, imagining assassins waylaying his coach like highwaymen in the dark, and shuddered. _All my sons are brave men,_ he heard his father snap, _except one. And I shan’t speak of him, wot, for the milksop is to succeed me._

“You’re certain that nothing can be done?” he pleaded, disgusted by how weak his voice sounded. His eyes watered and he took another swallow. Why had he done to deserve Jenksberg’s animosity — hadn’t he picked the man as prime minister?

“If only such ills allowed for a more ready cure.” Liverpool bowed his head. “Despite the increase in excise revenue, we continue to suffer from the close of a lengthy war and time alone can provide the remedy.” He coughed. “Think of Britain’s economy like… ice settled upon a lake. When a large sheet of ice contracts there are various convulsions and ruptures that disfigure its surface until it attains its reduced dimensions.”

It was a chilling comparison in every sense. _And who will they blame for all this misery?_ George thought of the horrid, blood-soaked loaf Miss Hunt had found in the garden and took another sip. Closing his eyes, he hardly noticed Kerrick drape a clean banyan over his shoulders. What if Sidmouth was right and this _was_ a prelude to revolution?

He glanced across the room, meeting the melancholy eyes of Mytens’ portrait of Charles I as Martin refilled his glass. He’d seen the royal corpse lying in its long-forgotten vault with Henry VIII and Jane Seymour. The stitches which secured Charles’ head had failed but the dark, seeping countenance retained an eerie familiarity, despite the fact that his nose had rotted away and one eye — open and glassy — crumpled when the head was lifted. _Take heed of the axe,_ a voice seemed to murmur _, pray, take heed of the axe._ But the painting’s lips remained immutable as ever. George shook his head. If the old cavalier had started speaking to him, his nerves would have given way altogether.

He could still smell the ghost of the wine splashed across the table. It put him of the pleasure gardens before the war, where they used to serve claret so sharp and cheap the barrels were already half-spoiled from their trip across the channel. Miss Hunt meant well, he was certain, but she was impressionable — as he had been in those bright, mad, spangled days, giddy with liquor and pomade. Reform and rebellion — anything that gave the King sleepless nights — had enchanted him. But then the French showed everyone what horrors such ideals could unleash. And, even then, he’d scoffed at those who worried such a thing could happen to him or his family. He’d been so confident in his Whig friends, ecstatic over his new colonelcy, and deluded into thinking he was off to fight the French with his brothers.

“May I ask who it was that brought this to Your Royal Highness’ attention?” Sidmouth asked with a tight smile, his gaze shifting to McMahon.

“Oh, one hears things — here and there…” George gestured vaguely with his glass, limp with helplessness as he stared at the two ministers, and felt as though he were trapped in a vice. _Shall I loosen your stays?_ The memory of Gwendolyn’s seductive voice was chased by the echo of Sidmouth’s laughter and, beyond that, the ridicule that had hounded him for so many years. Secret sniggers and amused glances, the merciless poems and caricatures, the open mockery of the London mob, Miss Austen’s barbs, and — lately — the tell-tale quirk of Brummell’s lips whenever he asked his friend’s thoughts on his new uniforms. The Duke of Wellington said he paid too much mind to what people thought of him. Easy for the hero of Waterloo to be indifferent to public opinion! He wished they hadn’t sent Wellington to Paris. No one jeered when the duke was with him.

George was painfully aware that he was no politician. He could add lustre to any cause but every time someone persuaded him to play at politics he emerged the lesser for it. His mother often warned him about allowing others to take advantage of his amiability. _You would think I might have learnt my lesson…_ but that was another thing for which he had very little talent. The prime minister was giving him an odd look. “And… Brighton, Your Royal Highness?”

“I shall consider it,” George lied, purely to make them all go away. “You may go.” He accepted their farewells, finished his drink, and sent the page boys scurrying from the room with a disconsolate flick of his wrist. He caught the concern on Kerrick’s face but, for once, he was in no mood to be pitied. 

His headache, he realised with some surprise, had finally shifted and a rare touch of sunlight illuminated the room, catching in the cut glass and ormolu chandelier and casting flashes of colour across the blue carpet. He extended his hand and an idle rainbow played about his palm. There was superstition in his stillness; a fear that if he moved a cloud would vanquish the kiss of butterfly light.

Irritated by the entire affair, he had sent the wine-soaked breakfast away and declined to have his cooks prepare another. Now the empty table was becoming a matter of regret but pride would not allow him to change his mind so soon. He waved his hand, admiring the colours shifting across his fingertips, and then forced himself up.

 _Besides,_ he thought, casting a reluctant glance towards the mantle glass, _a little fasting will do me good._ But the face and figure reflected therein required no such efforts. Brilliants and silver satin glittered beneath a profusion of frizzed and powdered curls. It was a face half-forgotten, preserved in a hundred imperfect portraits as an insouciant blue-eyed cherub; yet no artist had ever captured the way hauteur warred with earnest feeling across the plump yet handsome countenance that had once been his. Dear Georgiana had once declared he could pass for a girl (and he’d gleefully tested her theory at more than one masquerade). Awed, he put a hand to the mirror and the young prince winked at him, pressing cold lips to George’s fingers, mischief in his violet glaze.

He drew back, his senses reeling, just as the sunlight faded from the room and, when next he looked up, the youthful vision had dissipated and the heavy features that stared back at him carried few traces of their former beauty. “Bring it back,” he whispered. But the fat, petulant face — which a multitude of creams and powders had failed to improve — stared back at him, unchanged. George swore, angry and unnerved, and shuffled over to the sideboard, trying to banish the vision from his mind as he looked over the remaining decanters, filled with the absurd notion that his faerie mirror was trying to punish him for casting it aside. “Too much laudanum,” he told himself, “damme, that’s all it is!” He was about to pour a glass of maraschino when a click sounded from across the room and he turned towards the noise.

Gwendolyn Hunt peered at him from behind the door, clinging cautiously to its handle. Her pretty face was pale in the grey light and she was wrapped in one of his summer banyans, rose silk pooling at her feet. _Oh God, the wager!_ How much of his conversation with the two ministers might she have overheard? It was one thing to humbly offer a lady her victory but quite another to reveal that he could not give her the prize she sought. Nor did his appearance inspire any confidence should charm prove his only recourse. He wiped his wet eyes, attempting to enliven their appearance, and was dismayed to notice two buttons missing from his waistcoat.

“Miss Hunt!” He abandoned the cherry brandy and seized her unresisting hands, bringing them to his lips, fervently hoping that she overheard nothing.  “La, look at you!”  he exclaimed, distracted by the way the trailing brocade fell open to reveal creamy breasts only half-hidden by her thin chemise. Fred, and any number of other gentlemen of his acquaintance, insisted that affairs with younger women were a veritable elixir of youth. But George, although thoroughly charmed by his companion and her costume, felt uncomfortably ancient by comparison.  

“I was cold.” Miss Hunt’s dark lashes lowered in embarrassment. “I hope Your Highness will forgive me the loan?”

“Forgive?” George shook his head, trying to put her at ease, searching her solemn expression for any clue as to what she might have heard. “No, no… ‘tis nothing to forgive. I’m delighted that something of mine has warmed you in my absence.” He bent his head to press her fingers with another kiss. “You may keep the thing, m’ dear, for — goodness knows — I shall never appear to such advantage in’t.”

“I’m sure that isn’t so,” she tried to persuade him, withdrawing her dainty hands and smoothing the silk possessively as she pulled the gown closed with a prim frown. “I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift.” Her eyes looked a little red — had she been crying?

“Nonsense!” George declared, leading her back to his bedroom and closing the door. He considered locking it to prevent any interruption, but her nervous glance stopped him from touching the key. She had only just begun to trust him, after all. “Bless me, ‘tis cold in here!” he blurted, taking a poker and stirring the perfectly adequate fire, desperate for something to say. “I’ve done my best to improve the old barn, of course, but one can only do so much about the draughts.” He ought to stop prattling, he knew, but his nerves would not let him. “I’ve a little stove in here from time to time — and people wonder why I prefer to winter at the pavilion! Faith, the sea air may be cold but the heating underfoot is a marvel.” God, next he’d be prosing on about the copper pipes — what a bore she must think him! “My poor frozen darling, you ought to have kept beneath the covers, ah… but how enchanting you look!”

She looked away, embarrassed. “Sir, I—”

“Why, with a sash and a fan, you could be a dancer from the orient!” His voice sounded too loud and falsely jolly, even to his own ears, and the only reply he received was a sad shake of her head. Was he the reason she was upset, was it something she heard, or perhaps her situation?  George longed to coax a smile from those sweet lips. He struck a pose and, imitating the graceful attitude of some odalisque, began to sway his hips. Miss Hunt’s dark eyes, following his movements, widened in astonishment.

It wasn’t a performance his old dancing-master would have approved. And George, so used to being supported by his stays, wasn’t at all prepared for the alarming degree of movement his unrestrained bulk could achieve. Despite his best efforts, every pocket of blubber seemed determined to keep its own time. Mortified, he would have abandoned the joke altogether but for Miss Hunt’s deepening blush and the warmth in her eyes that was anything but mocking. “S-stop!” she gasped, trying to stifle her amusement.

“Eh, faultin’ my technique?” he teased, green silk fluttering around him as he tossed a handkerchief into the air like a discarded veil. “Let’s see you do better!”

She laughed — heavenly sound! — and began to copy his movements. And suddenly it didn’t matter what he looked like because Gwendolyn Hunt had transformed into a wanton enchantress and he, mesmerised by the spectacle, knew that he was in love with her. He dropped the pantomime, gazing at her in admiration, and she — startled by the halt in their dance — tripped on the hem of the overlong gown and pitched sideways with a yelp.

George swore, a beat too slow to arrest her fall, but managed to catch her by the arm and swing her towards a sofa, where she landed in a disordered heap. Then they were both laughing, collapsed on the couch at the end of his bed, clutching their sides. And, just as she was beginning to regain her composure, he wafted his fingers suggestively over the lower half of his face, which sent her into fresh spasms of mirth.

“Stop it!” Her fist thudded uselessly into his chest.

“My word, Gwen,” he snickered, “is that… ah-ha… any way to — hah — treat your prince?”

“It is when he deserves it!”

“But you’re delicious when you laugh, _petit chou_. I adore it.” He plucked at her silk sleeve, eager to prolong the lightness between them. “Do you know what they call this shade of pink?”

“No?”

“Some call it maiden’s blush,” he explained, sliding his fingers up her leg, surprised to note a yellowed bruise on her calf. Had it been there last night? “But the French give it the delightful name of nymph’s thigh. Shall we test the accuracy of the comparison, do you think?” She caught his wrist but her glance held more fear than anger. He abandoned the game, pulling her close and kissing the shell of her ear, and a silence of the most pleasurable kind fell between them, broken only by the rustle of their clothes and their breaths settling on each other’s cheeks.

“Wherever did you learn to dance like that?” she asked when their kisses ceased, curled up on his lap in the most adorable manner and tugging cruelly at his waistcoat.

 _Like a Bedlamite? Pure talent, my dear, nothing to it._ “I had an affair with an opera dancer,” was his glib reply. It was a true enough statement, as far as it went, but he never took it into his head to ask her for lessons. He shifted uncomfortably as she pinched his large stomach, still bloated from last night’s supper, only just able to secure a roll of fat between her fingers. His brief liaison with the haughty Marie-Louise Hilligsberg had involved more than enough gymnastics to suit his taste. Although, to give the lady credit, _she_ never possessed the impudence to pinch the Prince of Wales!

“Oh.” Miss Hunt missed the joke, idly tightening her grip.

“Please, _mon sucre d’orge_ ,” he murmured in protest, trying to wriggle free, “your devoted Prinny bruises the same as any mortal.”

She relaxed her hold, blushing. “I didn’t mean — my apologies, Your Highness…” But, instead of ceasing, her explorations merely gentled. Soft, insistent touches which, for all their care, were still inexplicably drawn to those places he did not care to acknowledge existed. Between kisses, she loosened the cravat his valet had so artfully tied and put her lips to the fleshy ruffles that beset his neck. George, longing for his stays, and torn between ordering her to stop and begging that she never cease, shivered helplessly in her grasp.

“If I ever sell my story to the newspapers,” she purred, tracing the gap left by his missing buttons, “I shall be sure to include Your Highness’ facility for exotic dance.”

The words doused his pleasure like icy water. He knew she said it to amuse him but he couldn’t smile. The secrets of his flesh, no longer just between them, became rude lines drawn by some artist’s pen. There had been far too many beautiful creatures who had turned their pretty hands to blackmail when he tired of their company. But what had put such a thought into her head — was she about to desert him? Still half stultified by her caresses, his only answer was an inarticulate moan. A horrible thought struck him: perhaps her actions had nothing to do with his ministers and everything to do with last night? Was she, like so many others, only pretending to find him attractive? He knew that, these days, he did not shine in the first impression. He still remembered Isabella’s muted panic when he first made advances towards her. Had she fed him last night’s dishes, like the tales of Scheherazade, merely to protect herself? _My silly, charming boy,_ the memory of Maria chided him, _you must learn to be a better judge of character._

Miss Hunt kissed his cheek. “Prinny...?”

He broke the embrace and found his voice: “When this thing between us… ceases to be,” he said carefully, anxiously surveying her beautiful face, “you will be granted a generous annuity—”

“It was only a jest, I didn’t mean—”

“An _annuity,_ ” he persisted — determined to impress her with how much he valued her company — “which will protect you from the temptation to publish the details of our particular connection and,” he lowered his voice, “allow me the satisfaction of leaving you well-provided for.”

“Did you do as much for your opera dancer?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, obviously doubting the value of such promises.

“Madame Hilligsberg?” George shook his head, pained by the question. He wound two fingers through her wild hair and then let the black curls spring free. “No, that was more in the way of _—_ well, let us say a dancer of her calibre had many admirers.” For a woman plucked from the brink of ruin, Miss Hunt seemed oddly indifferent to promises of wealth. Her disinterest ought to comfort him but instead it made him uneasy. What, after all, did he really know about her? He had only her word for what she had been before he found her on the road _— damme, the road!_

If he hadn’t come across her she might have fallen victim to the pack of bloodthirsty murderers after his head! Overcome by the thought, he wrapped a protective arm around her small shoulders, imagining himself — rather than Kerrick or one of his guards — lifting her from the road and carrying her to the safety of his carriage. How, after such a romantic introduction, could he suspect this sensitive, idealistic creature of deceiving him?

“But we ought not to speak of any parting between us,” he hurriedly declared, “since I have no intention of giving you up. On the contrary, Gwen, I long to lock you in this room and feed you nothing but champagne and cake.”

She laughed. “That sounds extremely difficult to explain to your servants.”

“Faith, ain’t it just?” George sighed, relieved by the affection in her smile, noting that she’d left her tray untouched. “But look, you haven’t drunk your chocolate…”

 

~*~

 

The Prince Regent pouted at her undisturbed breakfast but Gwendolyn only shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry. Perhaps you’d like some? The chocolate will have lost its heat, but I daresay the biscuits haven’t suffered.” She reached behind them, lifting the plate of golden, scallop-shaped biscuits from the silver tray and placed them on her lap, wondering how to bring up the subject of their wager without causing offence. It was yesterday’s carriage ride all over again — all jitters and false cheer.

“Oh, those aren’t biscuits,” he explained with a puckish smile, “they’re madeleines… charming buttery little things.” He picked one up and offered it to her. Gwendolyn shook her head and he gave her a long, searching look. “If you’re certain…?”

There were very few things Gwendolyn was certain of in that moment. “I’m still rather full from our supper,” she confessed. “And, gallant as you are, I suspect you’re offering me your own breakfast and you’ve a much larger frame to keep up than I.”

The faint blush that tinged his round face as the madeleine disappeared with a characteristic hum of pleasure told her that, yes, all of it was originally meant solely for him. Was the prince really going to tell her nothing of his conversation with Liverpool and Sidmouth? “Prinny, don’t you think we — we ought to discuss—” A hundred things crowded her mind: the riots, their wager, the price of bread, his spending, Sidmouth’s lies, her missing clothes, his empty promises, her presence in his bedroom, what kind of winter would follow a freezing summer… “—yesterday evening?”

He raised his eyebrows, taking another cake, and waited politely for her to continue.

“Would you,” she stuttered out, “would you say our evening was unexceptional…?" It was a mistake, a connection spun of sugar and nonsense, and now there was nothing to keep her in the lavish, glittering nest of this fat royal magpie. From what she’d overheard, the weak-willed prince could no more order laws repealed than she could — _and, to think, I believed him to be a tyrant!_ She picked up a madeleine — purely to delay matters — and took a small bite. The almond sponge was lighter than she thought it would be. “I mean, how does… did it compare to similar occasions, in your experience?” _What am I saying?_

He bit the sponge in half, chewed thoughtfully, and then pursed his lips. “I don’t believe a gentleman could rightly answer such a question.” A few crumbs dropped down his straining silk waistcoat. “However,” he continued, calmly finishing the other half of the cake with another luxurious sigh, “no man could ever describe _you_ , dear Gwendolyn, as anything but exceptional.”

The compliment made her blush, unable to meet his eyes, and she fiddled with the pink sleeves of the gown he’d offered to give her, watching him carefully brush his waistcoat clean. How could she possibly approach such a delicate topic? Perhaps other, more experienced, ladies would not be surprised by such intimacies? “Have you ever seen or… or experienced… something that altered who you thought you were?”

He nodded and, for a moment, she thought it would be his only response. But then he took another cake and gave her a reassuring smile. “I believe I take your meaning. Yes, I must have been, what — it was the year Sir Thomas won me the Derby — six and twenty, or thereabouts?” He paused, finishing the madeleine, and availed himself of the last one without glancing at the plate. “Mmm, I was quite mad for the fancy — even took lessons — have the build for it, you know, and liked to wager on fights...”

It was hardly the direction she had intended for their conversation! Gwendolyn had little interest in so common and bloody a sport as pugilism. Nevertheless, she was obliged to listen to the prince’s recollections, quietly observing his discomfiture when reached for another madeleine and found the plate empty.

He noticed her smile and kissed her cheek. “I know what you’re thinking, angel, but your Prinny was a gnostic of the ring — knew his game — ha, ‘twas the turf that drained my purse! I was attending a set-to in Brighton between the local favourite, Earl, and old Tom Tyne. It was race-week and the third mill of the day, a perfect crush, and I had very good odds on Tyne — would you bring me that dish of comfits, my dear?”

Gone, apparently, was yesterday’s reluctance to let her fetch and carry. A thick finger pointed towards a whimsical crystal container precariously situated atop a stack of papers. She nodded, adjusting her borrowed gown, and brought it back to the couch. Exasperated with the obtuse prince, she sat back down beside him and rested the dish on her knees without opening it or offering it to him. _Why am I still here?_      

“Well, Earl was one of those lively black fellows, very popular, nothing to compare with what one hears about Molyneaux, of course — but a similar type — and for the first few rounds he simply flattened the old pug…” A large, dimpled hand reached for a sweet.

Hardly able to account for her actions, Gwendolyn slapped it away, earning a bemused silence from her royal admirer. He had, she thought idly, the same prominent eyes which characterised every paintings of his father but softened by sleepy eyelids, dark lashes, and the Queen’s upturned nose. He tried once more but the fat fingers retreated the moment she raised her hand.   

“Yes, Hanger was teasing me about backing the wrong man,” he continued, as though nothing had happened, but the look he gave her possessed a gamester’s spark. “But then Tyne put in such a blow to Earl’s temple that he reeled against the railing and dropped flat. La, you can imagine? I was up like a shot crying huzzah and leapt from my carriage to congratulate Tyne… then somebody shouted that Earl was dead.”

“Dead?” she echoed, pausing in surprise as she lifted the lid. The sugarplums smelt of rosewater, caraway, and sugared fruit.  

He nodded sadly. “A burst vessel in the brain, or some such, the doctor said. Can you imagine? A few claimed drink was the cause… nonsense, as far as I’m concerned. Ah, but there was I with my winnings had at the poor wretch’s expense! I could hardly bear it. Gave the money to his widow, along with a pension, and swore never to attend another match.”

He took Gwendolyn’s free hand, squeezing it tight, and she returned the gesture, wondering if it had been his first sight of death and how he would have coped in her shoes. _Very poorly,_ she judged, but it made her glad. Surely it was better to have a squeamish ruler than one indifferent to the sight of blood like Napoleon? “His poor wife. I’m glad you helped her. Think what sort of life they might have had if only her husband had better prospects than his fists...”

“In any case,” the prince continued loftily, “a year later, my friends dragged me to see Mendoza beat Humphries. Fine stuff… but _I_ was terrified, dreading every hit and wondering just what kind of fellow I was, unable to lay a bet. The truth is, though I still read the journals, I now have a perfect _horror_ of prize-fighting.” He leaned back, anecdote complete, as though expecting sympathy.

Gwendolyn was sorely tempted to leave. He had almost convinced her into believing him more than a bloated ball of vanity and self-obsession. She took a sugarplum and put it to his mouth. He let her feed him the sweet but his blue eyes were alert, curious, and a little mistrusting. “I haven’t had my usual breakfast,” he explained peevishly, as though that accounted for anything. Nodding in feigned sympathy, she fed him a second one, observing the coating catch on his plump lips, and — before he could begin to eat it — pressed a third one in. The sugarplum lodged like an apple in the mouth of a pig, dusting his chin with powdered almonds and sugar. _You can’t ignore it now,_ she thought as he covered his mouth and tried to chew, puffing out his cheeks and working his jaw, while his chins, released from their starched prison, wobbled as he swallowed.

“Mmph, mm…!” He wiped his face with a lace handkerchief, “But tell me, what of you, my dear? It seems to me you wouldn’t ask such a question unless you were put in mind of an experience of your own.”

She stared at him — _why wasn’t he saying anything about what she’d just done?_ — and tried to remember her question. But maybe, for him, her actions weren’t peculiar at all. All his mistresses might feed him treats. The thought disconcerted her more than it ought. How conceited she had been to believe herself the first woman to have done such a thing! After all, hadn’t he been brought up surrounded by servants and courtiers who catered to his every wish? But she must tell him something: “It was my brother’s first parish,” she found herself saying, in spite of the fact that it had been the last thing on her mind, “a small living in Lancashire. There were many paupers in his flock, mostly weavers, formerly so prosperous, suffering from the hardships of that trade. I was determined to institute a soup kitchen and managed to raise sufficient funds from the local quality. If I am honest,” she smiled wryly, “I was… rather taken with my own importance.” A flaw, unfortunately, she obviously had yet to overcome.  

“You’re _far_ too modest, my dear,” he insisted, casting a distracted glance towards the dish of sweets in her lap. “I’ve no doubt your charity was a fine example to all.”

“Perhaps, at first, but when we were ready to open…” The tremor in her voice surprised her. It was years ago now. “I...”

Prinny tilted his head, perturbed by her silence. “No one came…?” he ventured.

“I wish that was what happened. No, there were… more people than I realised. That is, they came, but not for our food. They stood outside, many of them without coats or shoes, and… threw stones.” She could still remember their faces, as hard as the rocks they hurled, and how terrified she had been, her pride shattered along with the glass. _Lord, what would they think of me now?_

“Surely not?” His blue eyes were wide in disbelief.

The prince wouldn’t know if she left the story there. But there were already too many falsehoods between them. She owed him all the truth she could give. “What happened afterwards… was worse. There was a riot.”

“Damnable ingratitude!”  

“It turned out that our principal patron, Mr Cawhill, had recently bought a number of machines and hired Irishmen to work them, throwing many of the local handloom weavers out of work. When they finished breaking our windows, they went to Wyrewood Hall and tried to break his. The local militia were called in and people were injured. A boy took a shard of glass through the eye…”  

“That was hardly your fault,” he murmured into her hair, setting the crystal dish on the carpet, his arms tightening around her. “How could you be expected to know such awful things would occur?”

“The local paper claimed the riot was caused by the poor quality of our soup, but I—”

“Oh, _newspapers!_ ” he spat. “I daresay Cawhill paid them to malign your soup in lieu of his reputation. Do you know,” he said slowly, “I believe I once met the man at Belle Vue Fields — was he the same Colonel Cawhill who was court-marshalled for misplacing regimental funds?”

“I… I’ve no idea…” She cosied into his side and closed her eyes. There ought to be a law against anyone being so comfortable; a warm bulwark against reality. She could tell herself he might still find a way to keep his promise, or let her feed him all the sweets in London, but _this_ was surely the reason she was trying to convince herself to stay.  

“Say,” he lifted her chin and smiled with the artificial brilliance of someone determined to change the subject, “talking of funds, didn’t I promise to help your cousin and her husband?” He pulled away and she clung to his banyan, trying to keep him beside her, but he began to wander about the room, opening lids and cabinet doors, digging under papers, and pawing impatiently through trinkets and jewels. “I’ve a fine memory for anecdotes and names — Anne, you see? — but I’d not attend a single appointment without McMahon to remind me, ah!” He held a pocketbook aloft with an air of triumph which vanished as soon as he opened it. “Oh damn, only four guineas, hmm… there must be…”

Gwendolyn, watching him turn his treasures upside down, was treated to a grand view of the wide royal backside as he bent to open a desk draw. “It’s… very good of you,” she managed to say.

“Pish! Four guineas are hardly the thing… you know, I once went down to Brighton without so much as a shilling. I’d sent McMahon on an errand and had to borrow a few hundred from my mother... here!” He stood up and flourished another pocketbook in her direction. “Let’s see… oh, much better, looks like… five-hundred pounds. Ha, my father gave the same to the man who told him his wife had given him an heir… regretted it for the rest of his life, I daresay. Do you think it’s enough?”   

 _I could buy a house with that much money._ She wasn’t comfortable with her relations profiting so much by the prince’s generosity, for all she wanted to help them. “No, it’s _far_ too much…”

“Nonsense, what say we go together, eh? What a jolly surprise that would be.”

 _Lord, if Anne said the name Tripthorne in front of the prince… no, no, no!_ “You _cannot_ be serious!” she protested, aghast. “How would that look? I haven’t even told her the truth about our connection — what would I say? It’s too extraordinary. Besides you’re, well, _you_ — it would only draw attention, and—”

“Incognito, Gwen! We’d go out the back, through the park… romantic, don’t you think?”

She’d never have guessed she was looking at a man who’d just been told there were people who wanted to kill him. _Oh Prinny, do you not possess a shred of common sense?_ “But what if someone recognises you, without your guards… aren’t you afraid?”

He recoiled as though she’d stuck him a blow across the face and then looked down his nose at her. “Afraid? Ha, I used to wander all over town, quite unrecognised, with only a few luckless equerries trailing behind me. ‘Sides,” he continued, recovering his composure, “despite what anyone says, I’m hardly the only full-figured gentleman in London. No one will know.”

“Surely,” Gwendolyn tried again, fearful she’d only encouraged him further, and grasping at straws, “you do not want to embarrass poor Anne. She was too proud to ask for my help, even when she saw my fashionable clothes, and how do you imagine she will feel when she is in no position to offer us the hospitality she would wish?”

He sat back down and took her trembling hand. “Dear Gwendolyn,” he soothed, “you are so tender-hearted. I _do_ understand your concerns, but I’ve been on the sharp end of that stick myself — bought my wine by the bottle, if you can credit it — so believe me when I tell you that guests who come with good tidings are always welcome.”

She _had_ to stop this. If he met her cousin there was no way she could avoid him learning her true name! “P-prinny,” she stuttered out, feeling like the worst hypocrite alive, “I wasn’t going to say, but I overheard what was said about… p-people wanting to kill you. You _mustn’t_ go anywhere without your guards!”

“Ah.” His broad shoulders sagged and he blinked at her, his face blank. “I was… doing my best to forget about that. I suppose you heard the rest as well?”

She nodded.

He took a deep breath and offered her the pocketbook. “I’ll not renege on my promises, Gwen. You’ll have your annuity, a house, whatever you wish… even if you leave this afternoon. But, perhaps… you will permit me to explain?”

Gently, she pushed it away, disappointed. At least they were finally discussing the wager. “Please don’t try to buy me, Your Highness.”  

The prince sighed. “I admit, I didn’t think our wager through. I was upset by the… object you discovered in the garden and grasping for any reason to force you to stay. It just came into my head and, well, you don’t know how pretty you looked that night and how obvious it was you despised me. If I could only charm _this_ girl, I thought… but I needed something to… and I really _did_ think Liverpool would listen to me…”

“Please, I—”

“And you’ve _no idea_ how very bad my health has been of late. I cannot even _begin_ to describe my sufferings! Why, to tell the truth, I’ve been confined to a chair almost all year and ‘tis only in the last few days I’ve felt anything like myself again and I’m _convinced_ that _you_ are the cause of it! I know everyone thinks me the luckiest old buck but I’d give anything to be a useful fellow, only… you see, some people are happiest when each day is exactly like the last and others couldn’t imagine anything worse… do you understand?”

“Not particularly,” Gwendolyn confessed, unwilling to be drawn into his excess of self-pity.

“If ‘twere up to me, I’d have travelled all over the world — seen all sorts — and fought against Bonaparte, b’ God! But instead I’m stuck signing things that bore me half to death while everyone complains they could do the job better. People hated me for supporting the Whigs and now they complain I favour the Tories. I _do_ read the papers, you know!” He gestured wildly towards the newspapers still sitting on the silver tray, tears in his eyes, his big body trembling. “Don’t leave, Gwendolyn — _I beg you!_ — oh, _please_ don’t leave! You _mustn’t!_ I love you, _adore_ you! _I’ll do anything you ask!”_

The prince was working himself into a nervous fit, she could tell. Not knowing how to respond, she put her arms around him, ignoring his feverish promises, breathing in his orange blossom perfume as she held him tight. He sobbed and shuddered against her, knocking over the dish with his foot. Cynically, perhaps, she wondered if it was all a performance for her benefit. Sugarplums rolled across the plush carpet. “Hush, pet,” she whispered, as though comforting a child. “Hush-hush… I’m here.”

 

~*~

 

When George’s tears ceased he pulled away, embarrassed, hiding his face in his cambric handkerchief. The world had ceased to spin and the sicking falling sensation had faded just enough for him to realise that he’d made a complete fool of himself. Appalled, he wanted to flee but he wasn’t confident he could even stand. Dizzy, and deprived of Miss Hunt’s embrace, he dug his free hand into the silk cushions, anchoring his sweaty fingers to the sofa, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

“Prinny, do you need — uh, perhaps tea or soda-water… should I call someone?”

He would usually summon a bevy of doctors to fuss, bleed, and reassure him but, knowing that she would have to leave if he rang the bell, he shook his head. “N-no, ‘twill be… all over in a moment…” he managed to gasp out. Taking the deepest breath possible, he heaved himself to his feet, his heart still racing, and groped his way towards the cabinet beside his bed, fumbling for his lancet. “Please excuse — well!” Once he found the draw that held the little knife, he grabbed a clean chamber pot and tossed it onto the bed, throwing off his banyan and rolling up his sleeve. “My doctors insist it is all poor digestion and w-want of exercise, but what can one do…?” Collapsing on the bed, he held his elbow over the pot and made a shaky incision, senses swimming, watching a scarlet line side down his arm and drip into the large porcelain bowl.

Miss Hunt seized his arm. “Lord — _what are you_ _doing?”_

“’Tis only a little blood, Gwen, pray don’t trouble yourself… I s-shall be fit as ever in a minute.” She was young enough, he thought dreamily, not to know how he had stabbed himself in an attempt to persuade Mrs Fitzherbert to marry him. _Oh George, you are such a fraud, at the merest sign of affliction you would have everyone believe you to be at death’s door!_ Maria, admirable woman that she was, never understood his delicate sensibilities. He closed his eyes as the anxiety slowly drained from his body, grateful for the small hand gently rubbing a circle into his back.

“Oughtn’t you to call for a surgeon?” she asked.

“No, no…” he murmured, reposing gratefully against her bosom, “you are all the physic I need, my dear.”  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Hoppner did a beautiful portrait of Marie-Louise Hilligsberg if anyone feels like looking her up. According to Robert Huish, she was genuinely in love with the Prince of Wales and deeply offended when he tried to pass her off to his friend Lord Barrymore. One night, after their affair had ended, they met backstage at the opera and, instead of waiting for the prince to speak, she was supposed to have said “You are the Prince of Wales, sir — then know that I am Louise Hilligsberg!” and walked on. Whether the prince’s attacks of hysteria were genuine or feigned, he was well-known for emotionally blackmailing his lovers, and really did keep a lancet in his rooms for bleeding himself when there was no one to do it for him. Gwendolyn’s soup kitchen experience is based on real events and the Stale Bread Act of 1801 really did try to prohibit bakers from selling fresh bread to the poor.


End file.
